PS 

3525 
M&965A17 

1&97 


i 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


'fmfi. 


C       -. 


a 


J 


ill    *t   t-vvv, 


^V 


^ 

'  3 


A  •  /  /  t< 


.- 


POEMS 


BY 

HENRY  D.  MUIR 


CHICAGO: 

1897 


Copyright,  1897, 

by 
HENRY  D.  MUIR. 


/fin 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


These  verses  have  been  selected  from  among 
those  contributed  to  various  local  publications  dur 
ing  the  past  seven  years.  The  critical  reader 
scarce  needs  to  be  informed  that  the  poems  in  the 
latter  portion  of  the  volume  were  the  first  written. 

Chicago,  September  30,   1897. 


CONTENTS. 


Title.  Page. 

The  Bower  of  Death 9 

An  Invitation 14 

Sand 15 

Earth's  Secrets 16 

Health 17 

Orsino's  Court 18 

Two  Voices *9 

At  Sunset  Hour 21 

Nature's  Voice 22 

The  Dim-Seen  Torch 23 

The  Giants 24 

Plutus  the  World-Conqueror 28 

Ariel's  Visit 32 

SONNETS: 

Through  Half-Shut  Eyes 36 

An  Illinois  Prairie 37 

The  Sleeping  Lake 38 

Poetry 39 

To  the  Decadents 4° 

Ada  Rehan  as  Viola 41 

Ada  Rehan  as  Rosalind 42 

King   Lear 43 

To  Sir  John  Falstaff 44 

John  Keats 45 

Springtime  Musings 5° 

Where? 55 

Mammon's  Bride 56 

Bookland 57 

Cupid's  Prayer 59 

Sylvius  and  Phebe 61 


CONTENTS. 

Title.  Page. 

A  Madrigal 64 

Song 65 

Joy  and  Sorrow 66 

Autumn 67 

Literary  Musings 68 

The  Man  Who  Liked  a  Joke 69 

Great  Caesar's  Ghost 70 

SONNETS: 

A  Piece  of  Blue 75 

Thoreau 76 

The  Thought  of  Death 77 

A  Rainy  May 78 

June  Greeting 79 

Slaves  of  Mammon 80 

Fancy 81 

Music 82 

The  Captive  Spring 83 

The  Lilac  Bush 84 

Morning 85 

On  the  River 87 

Song  of  the  Butterfly 89 

The  Soldier's  Grave 90 

Morning-Glories 92 

Sleep 94 

Glory 95 

Hope , 96 

Sparks  from  Sappho 97 

Thistledown 100 

Inconstancy 101 

Discord 102 

April  Weather 103 

A  Morning  Incident 104 

Belated  Flowers 105 

The  Waifs 106 

All  Is  Said 107 

Squibs 109 


POEMS. 


THE  BOWER  OF  DEATH. 

Summer's  breath  is  sweet  and  warm 

With  full  life  and  languid  charm; 

There's  no  taint  or  thought  of  death 

In  the  air-enriching  breath 

Of  Summer:  her  dwindled  streams 

Sing  for  joy  to  the  bright  beams 

That  rob  them;  her  river  coves 

Hang  green  with  health;  fields,  hills,  groves, 

Everything  Nature  possesses, 

Summer  blesses  and  caresses 

With  the  touch  of  life  complete. 

But  I  know  a  lone  retreat, 
Where  wild  flowers  blossom  rarer, 
Where  the  trees  grow  taller,  fairer, 
In  their  undisturbed  grace, 
Than  elsewhere;  and  in  that  place 
Death  hath  framed  himself  a  bower. 
'Twas  one  sultry  noontime  hour, 
When  the  sun  through  fainting  air 
Shot  heat-arrows  everywhere, 
That  my  boat's  prow  turned  aside 
Screening  leaves,  and  I  did  glide, 
Like  a  shade  through  shadows  whirled, 
To  meet  the  king  of  the  shade  world. 

9 


Let  the  fabling  poets  tell 
Of  the  dangers  that  befell 
Proserpine,  ere  she  came  forth 
From  dusk  regions  of  the  earth; 
Let  them  paint,  in  colors  somber, 
Fierce  and  horrid  shapes  that  slumber 
In  dark  cells  and  drowsy  caves — 
Pluto's  murder-willing  slaves — 
Yet  the  mind  will  not  believe  them, 
And  the  soul  will  not  receive  them. 
Earth,  to  senses  world-oppressed, 
Is  a  treasury  of  rest, 
In  which  quietness  is  stored 
By  silent  gnomes — a  vast  hoard, 
Shared  in  peace  and  amity. 
Though  Earth's  face  be  fair  to  see, 
And  the  sun  and  moon  adore  it, 
And  the  stars  glow  bright  before  it, 
She  hath  beauty  hid  within 
Her  head,  her  breast — 'neath  the  skin 
Of  mountain,  plain  and  shining  sea, 
Which  hides  her  soul's  sublimity. 

Thus,  when  gulping  caves  of  gloom 
Swallowed  me,  no  thought  did  come 
On  the  eagle  wings  of  fear 
To  my  mind,  but  all  was  clear 
And  terrorless;  as  though  day 
Scattered  freely  in  my  way 
Lavish  sunbeams  and  the  sky 
Arched  blue  above  my  head. — I, 
In  a  strange   half-swoon  of  peace, 

10 


Heard  the  dark  waves  chafe  and  tease 

Jagged  ledges  of  cold  rock 

And  the  roar  and  mighty  shock 

Of  vast  sunless  waterfalls, 

Till  those  subterranean  halls 

Were  threaded  and  I  was  borne, 

Like  a  sea-plant  gently  torn 

From  loose  rootage  'neath  the  ocean, 

Surfaceward  with  easy  motion; 

Guided,  by  a  viewless  power, 

To  Death's  dim  and  covert  bower. 

There  the  stream  was  all  o'erhung 
With  withered  vines;  dead  moss  clung 
To  the  pine  trees  tall  and  dark, 
And  was  seen  no  vital  spark 
Of  plant-life  in  grass  or  flower. 
Ev'n  the  faint  wind  wrought  a  shower 
Of  dry  leaves  and  brittle  cones, 
Twigs,  and  sapless  boughs — the  bones 
And  the  bark-flesh  of  dying  trees — 
And  this  pungent-odored  breeze, 
Gaining  strength  for  lower  rambles 
O'er  decay-sweet  brush  and  brambles, 
Scattered  snake  sloughs  through  the  brown 
And  seared  aisles,  like  thistledown ; 
Pillaging  the  serpent-dead, 
'Midst  the  reeds,  on  muddy  bed. 
So  this  spot,  verdure-surroiimded, 
And  by  health  and  beauty  bounded, — 
Like  a  sorrow  that  doth  keep 
In  the  heart  securely  deep, 

n 


'Neath  the  shifting  surface  joys; 
Like  a  blight  which,  hid,  destroys, 
In  a  garden  rich  and  fair, — 
Lay  all  desolate,  all  bare: 
For  King  Thanatos,  at  rest 
On  a  couch   by  wood-nymphs  drest 
For  his  sole  and  regal  use, 
Could  not  choose  but  work  abuse; 
Blighting,  ev'n  with  inert  presence, 
Every  sweet  and  lifeful  essense, 

Yet  this  bower  of  gloom  possessed 
Charms,  and  every  sense  confessed 
The  potency  of  subtile  spell;    . 
For  a  web  of  quiet  fell 
O'er  the  sore  and  restless  mind, 
Shutting  out  the  world  behind, 
With  its  care  and  pain  and  hurry. 
Lulled  by  Death,  secure  from  worry, 
Here  forever  had  I  lain, 
And  the  earth  had  found  again 
Her  poor  loan  of  dust  and  clay, 
Had  no  faint  and  truant  ray 
Of  the  heaven-sweeping  sun 
Pierced  the  mystic  woof  and  won 
My  soul  back  to  life  and  duty. 

Out  into  the  vernal  beauty 
Of  the  world  I  paddled  forth, 
Tasting  of  the  forest  mirth 
With  new  zest,  till  every  sound 
In  my  heart  its  echo  found. 
And  the  air  was  never  sweeter, 

12 


Or  the  summer  scene  completer 
In  fair  fantasies  of  bloom, 
Than  then,  ere  contrasting  gloom 
Of  that  nook  so  late  forsaken 
From  my  passive  mind  was  shaken. 
And  ev'n  then,  as  since,  a  flow 
Of  underthought,  beneath  the  glow 
Of  free  sense,  came  pulsating; 
Taming,  molding,  leavening, 
With  slow,  melancholy  motion, 
All  that  wild  and  formless  ocean 
Of  rare  joy,  and  chastening 
The  rank  earth  and  everything; 
Making  death-thoughts  sweet  as  life, 
And  life-thoughts  less  passion-rife; 
Binding,  twining,  in  one  wreath, 
The  best  flow'rs  of  life  and  death. 


AN  INVITATION. 

All  this  golden  day  is  mine; 

Mine  the  pure,  life-giving  air; 

And  the  prodigal  sunshine, 

It  is  mine,  O,  it  is  mine — 

Mine  to  feel,  and  mine  to  share 
With  all  leaping  hearts  that  dare 

To  meet  its  touch  divine! 

Let  this  golden  day  be  ours, 

Brothers  of  the  smoke-grimed  town ! 

And  the  swift,  unloitering  hours, 

Let,  O  let  them  all  be  ours ! 

Though  the- tyrant  Labor  frown, 
Come  and  lay  your  burdens  down 

Among  these  trees  and  flowers. 

For  this  golden  day  may  hold 

All  the  best  that  Earth  can  give 

From  her  treasures  manifold; 

O,  this  passing  day  may  hold 

Regal  joys,  strong  to  outlive 
Sorrows  keenly  sensitive 

In  hearts  grown  weak  and  old. 


SAND. 

Out  .on  the  light-brown  seabeach  glad  children  are  playing, 
Romping  in  clean,  soft  sand,  with  spirits  flowing  and  high ; 

Digging,  tunneling,  building,  the  whim  of  the  moment 

obeying, 
Unawed  by  the  protean  blues  of  sea  and  of  sky. 

In  jar  and  blur  of  the  fierce,  untamable  city 

Children  play  with  sand  of  the  builders,  happy  and  loud; 
Nature-starved,  they  seek  not,  expect  not,  your  pity — 

Anxious  only  to  delve  unmolested  amidst  noise  and 
crowd.  „ 

So  may  man's  valorous  soul,  if  given,  for  shaping, 
The  rich  sand  of  life1 — by    Time    ever    scattered    and 

whirled — 
Break  fated  environments,  unconsciously  'scaping, 

Glow  unabashed  before  nature,  live  unsubdued  by  the 
world. 


EARTH'S  SECRETS. 

No  secret,  Earth,  thine  ample  breast 

In  Summer's  prime  canst  hold; 
Thy  dreams  of  peace,  thy  vague  unrest, 
To  the  wide  world  are  told; 

For  each  small  traitorous  flower 

Thou  nursed  and  gav'st  life-power, 
And  even  now  foldest  into  thy  bosom  kind, 

Doth  breathe  to  arching  trees 

Thy  closest  secrecies, 
And  the  trees  whisper  them  to  the  all-telling  wind. 

Not  till  grim  Winter's  ice  and  snow 

Lock  droop-boughs  rigid-tight, 
And  lay  those  tiny  traitors  low 

Beneath  the  prisoning  white — 
O  Earth,  canst  thy  proud  dreaming, 
Thy  planning  and  thy  scheming 
How  to  array  the  Spring,  to  crown  and  garland  her, 
Be  safe  in  thy  deep  heart; 
And  no  wind  mayst  impart 

To  the  cold  world  thy  thoughts,   nor  guess  their 
quickening  stir. 


16 


HEALTH. 

To  the  healthy  eye 

The  earth  is  never  old, 
The  sky  is  rich  with  changing  hues, 

The  fields  with  floral  gold; 
Each  grove  a  world  of  beauty  is, 

Each  stream  a  long  delight, 
A  universe  of  joy  is  found 

On  every  mountain  height. 

To  the  healthy  mind 

How  deep,  how  full,  is  life; 
How  lifted  up  by  noble  aims 

Above  all  aimless  strife; 
Piercing  through  Art  for  Nature's  best, 

But  dearly  loving  both — 
To  such  a  mind  her  close-kept  gates 

Truth  opens,  nothing  loth. 

Come,  O  stranger  Health! 

O,  come  and  bathe  the  earth 
With  a  warm  flood  of  ruby  blood, 

Cleansing  Man's  morbid  hearth; 
Leap  like  new  fire  within  his  veins, 

And  rouse  his  drooping  soul, 
Till  he  stands  erect  with  spirit  pure 

And  frame  that's  strong  and  whole. 


ORSINO'S  COURT. 

In  Orsino's  lavish  court 

Gold  doth  shine  and  silver  gleameth, 
Tapestries  of  rarest  sort 

Deck  those  walls,  and  music  streameth, 
In  sweet  rivulets  of  sound, 
From  above,  below,  around; 
Beauty  walks,  and  Youth  doth  sport 

In  Orsino's  court. 

But  Orsino's  dreamy  court 

Holdeth  dearer,  prouder  treasure 

Than  bright  gems,  or  Beauty's  port, 
Or  the  careless  smiles  of  Pleasure; 

Love  is  there,  and  there  is  found 

Deep  soul-patience  without  bound, 

Whilst  Viola  makes  resort 
At  Orsino's  court. 


18 


TWO  VOICES. 

You  are  weary  of  rhyming,  O  Poet,  you  are  wearied,  are 

worn, 
With  Art,  its  close  boundaries,  its  gyves  and  its  fetters ; 

Your  verses,  ev'n  while  you  write  them,  do  glance  at  each 

other  with  scorn — 

The  sentences  despise  their  words  and  the  despised 
words  their  letters; 

And  the  completed  legions  pf  lines  seem  to  wish  they  had 
never  been  born, 

For  they  stand  to  the  past  and  its  poets  like  rows  of  impov 
erished  debtors. 

You  are  weary  of  life,  too,  O  Poet,  nigh  wearied  to  death 
With  the  dull,  brazen  stare  of  the  world  and  its  soul- 
smirching  glitter; 
And  Earth  hath  a  slow,  morbid  voice,  and  her  morbid  voice 

saith : 

"Thou,  Poet,  who,  living  thy  life,  hast  found  it  so  bitter, 
Why  dost  thou  wrestle  and  fight  for  a  poisonous  mouthful 

of  breath? 
To  lie  in  my  bosom  forever  and  sleep  would  be  fitter." 

But,  Poet,  believe  not  the  false  and  sophistical  voice  of 
the  earth — 

19 


The  myriad  tongues  of"  the  air — the  weird  winds — are 

singing; 
Some  shrill  with  the  fierceness  of  passion,  some  soft  with 

the  newness  of  birth; 
But  all  truthfully  bringing  the  message  consigned  to 

their  bringing: 
"Though  the  wide  sea  of  life  should  be  choked  with  the 

perilous  bergs  of  the  North, 
Be  thou,  as  a  storm-beaten  bell,  through  mist-walls 

still  ringing." 


20 


AT  SUNSET  HOUR. 

Could  I  but  live  this  hour 

Careless  and  free; 
Be  like  a  bird  or  flow'r, 

Or  cease  to  be; 

Sweep  with  unresting  wing 
Heaven's  blue  dome, 

Or  drowse,  low  nestling 
In  Earth's  perfume, — 

Then  would  ignoble  years 

Of  soul-decrease 
Dissolve,  like  outgrown  fears, 

Before  the  peace 

Of  one  brief  sunset  hour, 

Fleeting  away, 
But  yielding  mightier  dower 

Than  all  the  day. 


21 


NATURE'S  VOICE. 

We  live  in  Nature's  ceaseless  sound; 

Although  we  note  it  not, 
Her  melodies  and  discords  round 

Our  every  act  and  thought; 
Making  kind  deeds  more  kind  in  kindness, 
Mazing  blind  thoughts  in  blinder  blindness, 

Coloring  pale  threads  of  fate — 
To  joy  adding  joy,  to  grief's  grieving 
More  grief,  love  to  fond  love,  and  breathing 

Hate  into  the  soul  of  hate. 

Nature's  proud  voice  is  but  a  chirp 

In  the  mighty  choir  of  Time, 
But  no  earth-child  can  e'er  extirp 

From  his  heart  the  rhythm  sublime 
Of  sound-surges  that  beat  and  fill  it, 
Of  passion-notes  that  stir  and  thrill  it, 

In  endless  pulse  and  free; 

But  still  must  sweep  with  the  wave's  wild  reaches- 
High,  low,  'gainst  rocks,  up  fair  palm  beaches — 

At  whim  of  the  fateful  sea. 


22 


THE  DIM-SEEN  TORCH. 

Above  the  wreck  and  carnage  of  slow  years, 

And  all  their  clinging  fears, 

Through  fire,  through  smoke,  through  stanchless  streams 
of  blood, 

Cuba!  at  last  I  see 

The  torch  of  Liberty 
Shine,  though  hid  her  face  in  war's  tempestuous  flood. 

Soon  on  thy  dripping  hearthstone  will  she  kneel, 

And  thy  sad  wounds  will  heal; 
Thy  death-white  cheeks  will  glow  with  coloring  life: 

Fresh  flow'rs  will  star  thy  hair; 

Thy  heart  new  hopes  will  share 

With  those  warm  sister  hearts  that  bought  their  peace  with 
strife. 

Cuba!  thy  cherished  sons  lie  prone  and  dead, 

But  lift  thy  pensive  head: 
From  the  safe  mountain,  from  the  matted  grove, 

From  plantain-shaded  caves, 

From  o'er  the  ocean  waves 
Rally  heroic  souls,  each  worthy  of  thy  love. 

Already,  Cuba,  in  thy  watchful  eyes 

The  lights  of  felt  power  rise; 
Up  from  the  earth  thou  rearest  thy  proud  form : 

Thou,  too,  dost  dimly  see 

The  torch  of  Liberty 
O'ertop,  with  cheering  glow,  the  dark  and  cheerless  storm, 


THE  GIANTS. 
I. 

The  grim  and  massy  giants  of  the  town 

Lift  their  proud  heads  amid  the  swirling  smoke 

And  view  the  clear  blue  sky  with  envious  frown: 
They  cannot  strike  or  mar,  with  tyrant  stroke, 

The  mild,  sweet  face  of  Nature,  or  pull  down 
The  spirits  of  the  air  to  gasp  and  choke; 

So  on  the  prisoned  earth  they  straightway  turn 

Their  gaze — stern  brows  and  eyes  grown  doubly  stern. 

II. 

And  all  year  long,  around  their  pillared  feet, 

They  watch  the  ant-like  swarms  that  creep  below; 

That  thin  not  for  the  summer's  languid  heat, 
Nor  fail  when  keen-teethed  winds  of  winter  blow: 

There  master,  slave,  the  cheated  and  the  cheat, 
The  millionaire,  the  beggar  come  and  go — 

Self-stung  by  life's  Nemesis,  the  desire 

To  girt  their  very  souls  with  Mammon's  fire. 

III. 

These  stalwart  brothers  seem  to  stand  and  mock 
Their  pygmy  masters  with  disdainful  look, 

As  though  their  mighty  hearts  of  quarried  rock 
Retained  some  impulse  of  the  power  that  shook 

24 


The  mountains  with  unanswerable  shock — 
Some  light  and  poetry  of  canyon  brook, 
Some  majesty  of  cliff  and  sea-swept  cave, 
Which  all  the  race  of  earth  could  ne'er  enslave. 

IV. 

What  scenes  of  pride  and  pulsing  pageantry 

Have  lived  their  minute-life  beneath  those  eyes; 

Yielding  their  lofty  place,  their  color  high, 
To  changeless  trade  and  pale  realities? 

What  foreign  sounds  have  joined  in  company 
To  feed  those  giant  ears  with  music-sighs, 

With  riot  echoes,  with  slow-tolling  bell? 

What  have  they  heard,  seen,  felt?    No  tongue  can  tell. 

V. 

Ev'n  should  some  Titan  god  (his  age-dead  youth 

Recalling)  animate  each  stony  breast 
With  fire,  and  stir  to  speech  those  lips  uncouth, 

What  language  passion-warm  could  bear  the  test 
Of  their  recited  themes?  tales  dark  with  truth — 

Stories  of  fouled  ambition,  cold  unrest; 
Of  glowing  roses  robbed  of  scent  and  bloom, 
Of  heart-threads  broken  in  the  world's  vast  loom. 

VI. 

Of  all  the  fated  lives  these  monsters  guard 
In  sturdy  silence,  with  reluctant  care, 
Could  we  mark  one  and  follow  to  the  hard 

Completion  of  its  journey;  could  we  tear 
One    throbbing  heart — ensnared,  outwitted,  marred 

By  destiny — from  the  mute  thousands  there, 

25 


And  hold  it  warm  and  close — O,  what  a  story 
Might  press  on  our  near  hearts  its  record  gory ! 

VII. 

Colossal,  dark,  impenetrable,  they  stand, 

Locking  their  gloomy  secrets  safe  and  deep ; 

Each  bulk  a  sphinx,  though  no  Egyptian  sand 
Engrains  its  firm-fixed  feet:  their  eyes  o'ersweep 

A  wide  and  shifting  desert,  ever  fanned 

By  Fortune's  gustful  breath;  where  men  may  sleep 

One  night  in  an  oasis  of  content — 

The  next  may  wander,  weary,  jaded,  spent. 

VIII. 

O,  if  proud  banners  of  the  progressed  years, 
Mocking  lost  days  of  voiceless  savagery, 

Unfurl  but  this:     "The  world's  imperial  ears 
Hearken  to  none  but  Fortune's  progeny;" 

If  worthy  vessels  sink  where  one  uprears 
Its  ensign  on  the  crest  of  the  chafed  sea — 

Then  blush,  O  years,  for  ye  have  much  to  learn 

Ev'n  from  those  simple  days  ye  mock  and  spurn! 

IX. 

Around  these  swarthy  forms  these  giants  wear 
The  noble  spoils  of  many  an  ancient  state ; 

The  clear-cut  gems  of  Athens  sparkle  there, 

And  Rome's  huge  splendors  and  the  easy  weight 

Of  wrought  Venetian  wealth  alike  they  bear — 
Stolid,  indifferent — the  mute  guards  of  Fate. 

Yet  ever,  'neath  the  chains  and  veiling  dress, 

Is  seen  their  own  strong  limbs'  vast  sturdiness. 

26 


X. 

Time  stops,  aghast,  before  this  mighty  band; 

They  heed  him  not,  nor  heed  they  anything, 
Save  that  dull-prisoned  earth  o'er  which  they  stand 

At  sleepless  watch ;  the  winds  of  night  may  sing 
Weird  songs — they  hear  not;  the  lake's  surly  hand 

May  lash  her  white-maned  coursers  till  they  spring 
High  on  the  quivering  shore — they  move  not:  lost 
In  their  sure  selves,  a  world-ignoring  host. 


27 


PLUTUS  THE  WORLD-CONQUERER. 

I. 

This  quiet  sanctuary,  this  my  wood 
That  bowered  me  late  in  serene  solitude, 
And  did  inform  my  soul  with  visions  clear 
Of  life's  removed  sphere 
Sways  now  in  quivering  fear — 

For  see! 
Down  the  fair  vale,  from  mountain-cleft  emerging, 

In  proud-hued  pageantry, 

Fierce  singers  of  fierce  songs  of  wild  barbaric  glee 
Tumultuously  surging, 
Rhapsodically  urging, 

Over  sweet  clover-heads  and  grasses  waving  free, 
A  mighty  force 
Of  foot  and  horse 
And  rattling  chariotry. 

II. 

Behold! 

In  burnished  car, 
A-flash  with  studding  gems  and  curious-figured  gold,- 

Afar; 

But  visibly  clear,  as  ray 
Of  shafted  light,  above  the  morning  play 
Of  broken  beams,  is  clear 
And  goldenly  austere — 

28 


Gigantic,   proud — 

A  scornful  figure  views  the  sycophantic  crowd. 
On  either  side 
Earth's  monarchs   ride — 
King,  emperor,  and  heavy-sceptered  queen; 
Columbia's  self  is  there — 
Bowing,  her  forehead  bare — 
And  the  maidens  bright, 
In  simple  white 

Or  draped  in  rainbow  robes  of  rich  and  silken  sheen: 
All  hearts  applaud, 
All  minds  are  awed, 
All  heads  low  bend  before  the  car-borne  god. 

III. 

And  is  it  thou, 

Plutus !  to  whom  the  clustered  nations  bow 
With  reverence,  or  sing  their  heart-inflaming  joy — 
Thou,  Ceres'  son,  but  yesterday 

A  prankish  boy, 

In  high  Olympus  schooled  to  listen  and  obey! 
With  cornucopia,  teeming 
With  an  exhaustless  treasure, 
Thou  roved  the  world  at  pleasure, 
And  showered  a  golden   gleaming 
O'er  the  fertile  plain  and  hill, 
Withdrawing  all  at  will — 

But  now ; 

Now,  in  thy  massy  form  and  stern,  imperious  brow, 
I  see  the  complete  god, 

The  sole  world-ruling  king, 
Feared  conqueror  of  heavenly  synod, 
Master  of  man  and  brute  and  every  earthly  thing. 
29 


In  lone  exile  the  lofty  Thunderer  grumbles, 
And  his  fierce  spirit  humbles; 
Apollo  sulks  aloof, 
Beneath  his  own  bright  roof; 
Neptune  doth  keep 
In  deepest  deep, 

Where,  through  eternal  gloom,  the  sullen  waters  sweep. 
All  scattered?   No;  the  passion  gods  are  here 
That  tease  the  human  breast  with  hope  and  fear — 
Love  waits  thy  granting  nod  ere  he  may  speak, 
Justice  before  thee  kneels,  a  suppliant  meek; 

Religion,  too, 
At  thy  proud  feet  doth  sue. 

IV. 

Frenzied  desire 
To  leap  into  the  throng, 
To  join  the  madd'ning  song, 

Engulfs  my  quickened  heart  in  passion-fanning  fire. 
In  swirl  and  glare  my  mind  is  overthrown — 
The  senses  rule  alone : 
A  gold-bright  key 
Is  handed  me; 
Strange  imageries, 
Soft  harmonies, 
Invite  me  on  and  on. 
I  ope  the  doors  of  Pleasure's  palaces, 
Loosing  a  thousand  joys  and  dull  satieties; 
I  thread  secluded  groves  and  bowers,  faint 
With  odors  rare  and  music's  dreamy  plaint; 
I  find- wide  dunes  of  all-neglected  treasure, 
Beyond  the  eye  to  measure; 

30 


My  breast  expands  with  domineering  tide 
Of  ecstasy  and  pride; 

For  round  me  cower, 
Soliciting  my  wish,  the  abject  slaves  of  Power. 

V. 

Is  this  my  sanctuary?  this  my  wood 
That  clasps  me  once  again  in  solitude? 
Is  this  the  outcast  Reason  that  doth  brood 
In  old  didactic  mood, 
Quelling  the  feverish  blood? 

I  hear, 
Borne  from  haze-hills,  through  trees  no  longer  swaying 

In  gaunt  and  shadowy  fear, 

The  surge  of  that  wild  band  in  cadence  faint,  but  clear : 
Their  march  for  naught  delaying, 
But  Plutus'  laws  obeying, 

They  follow  o'er  the  world  their  lord  and  idol  dear. — 
All  sounds  are  gone; 
I  muse  alone 
On  life  and  life's  mad  sphere. 


ARIEL'S  VISIT. 

' '  Why,   that's  my  dainty  Ariel:     I  shall  miss  thec ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom ." — Tempest. 

Ariel  again  has  come 

To  Earth :  he  has  left  his  home 

In  the  cloud-pavilioned  sky 

Where  the  daintiest  spirits  fly 

With  light,  never-weary  wings. 

Hark!  his  every  motion  flings 

On  the  gross  and  heavy  air 

Sweetest  music:  everywhere, 

Over  forest,  meadow,  lake, 

Grassy  hill  and  matted  brake, 

Throbs  a  melody  divine ; 

Simple,  lucid — like  a  fine 

Thread  of  sound,  dropped  down  by  chance 

From  Apollo's  realm  to  dance 

Through  the  cold  Earth's  frozen  veins 

And  feeble  heart.     All  the  chains 

Man  has  bound  to  Nature's  limbs 

Broken  are  where  Ariel  skims 

Through  the  dark  and  sullen  world; 

All  the  evil  thoughts  uncurled 

In  Man's  ever-active  brain 

Now  are  lulled  to  sleep  again. 

Simple  truth  and  gentleness, 

And  the  soul-born  arts  that  bless 

Earthly  life  and  lift  it  higher, 

Warm  with  true  celestial  fire — 

These  alone  seem  now  alive, 

These  alone  do  now  survive. 

32 


Tiny  spirit,  fleet  and  fair, 
Sporting  in  our  lower  air, 
Linger!  though  it  please  thee  not 
To  forsake  thy  heavenly  lot, 
Leaving  all  thy  high  delights 
For  such  poor-contrasting  sights. 
Earth  to  us  is  rich  and  grand — 
Sweet  the  fragrant-fruited  land, 
Beautiful  the  changing  skies, 
Dear  the  sea's  uncertainties; 
But  we  cannot  gauge  thy  pleasures 
By  our  own  untruthful  measures. 
One  can  almost  hear  thee  say: — 
"Lo,  what  heaviness  doth  weigh 
On  my  once  so  nimble  wings! 
O,  what  wild  complaining  rings 
In  mine  ears !     What  vulgar  light 
Dims  the  broad  harmony  of  sight! 
O,  these  mortals,  close  confined, 
Stinted  so  in  soul  and  mind, 
Flesh-clogged,  moving  sad  and  slow, 
'Mind  me  of  the  long-ago; 
'Mind  me  of  the  island-days 
When  witch  Sycorax  did  raise 
Fiendish  spells  and  did  confine 
My  limbs  into  a  cloven  pine — 
There  to  weep  twelve  winters  through, 
Pitied  by  the  forest  crew, — 
Even  the  rough-appearing  bear 
Wrhimpered  in  his  rocky  lair, 
Sympathizing  with  my  woe, — 
Until  mighty  Prospero 

33 


Broke  the  charm  and  set  me  free. 

O,  with  what  exultant  glee 

Glided  I  through  airy  spaces, 

Seeking  well-remembered  places 

Of  past  pleasures  and  delights! 

Then  returning  in  the  Night's 

Vast  arms,  I  did  sing,  and  sing, 

Making  all  the  island  ring 

With  sweet  peals  of  fairy-sound. 

Caliban  upon  the  ground 

Threw  himself  and  listened  long 

To  the  air-enchanting  song; 

And  his  monster  eyes  did  glisten, 

As  he  raised  his  head  to  listen. 

Pure  Miranda,  in  the  cell 

Of  her  father,  heard  the  swell 

Of  the  music  and  did  glide, 

Fresh  and  beautiful,  outside 

'Neath  the  moonbeam-checker'd  trees; 

And  I  wove  strange  fantasies 

Of  high  spiritual  gladness. 

Till  the  earthly  look  of  sadness 

Left  her  face  and  it  grew  soft 

Like  an  angel's.     Thus,  aloft, 

All  the  night  I  circled  round 

The  dreamy  isle,  living  in  sound; 

And  all  life  rejoiced  with  me 

In  my  new-found  liberty." 

Ariel  from  Earth  has  gone, 
And  the  golden  light  that  shone 
From  the  myriad  atoms  where, 

34 


Through  the  music-haunted  air, 
He  had  whirled  his  fearless  flight 
Now  has  paled  or  vanished  quite; 
And  the  glowing  harmonies, 
Dying  on  the  dying  breeze, 
Throb  and  sigh  in  echo-play, 
As  they  faintly  pulse  away — 
Ariel  from  Earth  has  gone, 
Leaving  the  sad  world  alone 
With  its  sorrow-weighted  load, 
Leaving  Man,  perplexed  and  bowed, 
To  his  thousand  sins  and  follies, 
To  his  gnawing  melancholies, 
To  his  coarse  and  bloody  food, 
To  his  pleasures,  fierce  and  rude, 
To  his  slavish  worshiping 
Of  the  golden-throned  king. 
O,  swift  Spirit!  when  will  he 
Shake  these  bonds  off  and  be  free — 
Free  from  all  low-brooding  care, 
Free  as  thou  art,  now  in  air? 
Must,  O  must  he  wait  till  Death 
Claims  him  and  his  hoarded  breath 
Ere  his  spirit,  fleshed  and  dull, 
Can  be  lightly  beautiful! 


35 


SONNETS. 


THROUGH  HALF-SHUT  EYES. 

When  couched  at  ease  in  sweet,  far-swelling  vale 
Youth  lies,  in  summer,  and  beholds  the  skies 
Through  the  lash  dream-gates  of  half-open  eyes, 

Thrice  whiter  droop  the  clouds,  all  pearly  pale, 

Thrice  bluer  the  sky-seas,  wherein  they  sail 
Like  fair-rigged  ships  in  squadron  companies, 
Than  when,  in  saner  and  gross  common  wise, 

Full-eyed  is  read  the  heavens'  azure  tale. 

Thus,  when  the  mingled  senses  of  the  brain, 

Having  but  waked  to  life's  strange  ebb  and  flow, 
Do  half  forget  the  truths  to  which  they  bow 

In  tame  submission,  and  so  dream  again, 

More  beauty  in  that  false  mind-world  will  glow 

Than  in  all  Wisdom's  courts  and  wide  domain. 


AN  ILLINOIS  PRAIRIE. 

No  antique  verse  from  Saadi's  garden-dreams, 
No  sensuous  song  from  Hafiz's  Persian  lyre, 
Could  stir  to-day  one  heart-leap  of  quick  fire 

Within  my  breast — no;  not  the  orient  gleams 

Of  fancy  from  the  sweet  rose-arbored  streams 
Where  Omar  sang  and  stilled  the  woodland  choir, 
Could  rouse  unwonted  pulse-beat  or  inspire 

My  thoughts  to  other  than  their  native  themes. 

For  here  the  prairie  stretches  far  and  wide, 
And  here  cool  green  with  white  and  gold  is  pied, 

And  here  a  thousand  happy  minstrels  sing; 
Here  hang  blue  skies,  and  odorous  winds  are  sent 
To  balm  the  restless  mind ;  here  is  content, 

For  here  is  home  and  love — life's  everything. 


37 


THE  SLEEPING  LAKE. 

The  lake  doth  dream  a  quiet  water-dream; 

For  moon-sent  spirits  smooth  her  golden  pillows,— 
Fearful  lest  lawless  winds  should  roughly  seam 

That  tranced  smoothness  with  unruly  billows 
And  stir  weird  fancies  of  the  glaciered  past. 

The  tall  shore-trees,  awake  in  watchful  numbers, 
Across  the  beach  their  blue-black  shadows  cast, 

And  guard,  with  zealous  care,  those  silent  slumbers. 
There  the  June-breath  of  Summer's  drowsy  fields 

In  cooler  fragrance  doth  dissolve  and  mingle, 
Till  all  the  odors  that  the  sweet  land  yields 

Are  purified  to  essence  rare  and  single — 
Fit  perfume  for  the  gentle  night  to  shake 
Above  the  sleep-lulled  senses  of  the  lake. 


POETRY 

In  winter  time,  when  close-imprisoning  snows 

Fright  the  chill  earth  with  ghostly  shapes  of  white, 
Oft  have  I  felt  clear  fire, — the  hopeful  glows 

That  heaven-high  thoughts,  on  poets'  scrolls,  excite; 
But  now,  when  every  breath  of  the  sweet  air 

Carries  life-vigor  to  my  laboring  heart, 
Quelling  to  silence  all  foul  rebels  there — 

Grim  Hate,  swift  Passion,  and  each  proud  upstart; 
Now,  when  my  soul,  'bove  its  own  disarray, 

Hangs  for  a  moment's  throb  in  self-true  poise, 
Lapsing  in  sunshine,  like  a  beam  at  play, 

Seeking  the  core  of  quiet  summer  joys, — 
O,  now  I  find,  along  one  river  bold, 
More  poetry  than  all  the  books  do  hold! 


39 


TO  THE  DECADENTS. 

Ye  scan  the  lettered  relics  of  the  past — 

Poor  tremulous  and  morbid-darkened  tribe — 
Saying,  "This  is  not  Art."  Ye  read,  aghast, 

The  vigorous  records  of  some  time-worn  scribe, 
Filled  with  bloodmen  and  action  muscular. 

Know  'twas  that  robust  spirit,  rude  and  strong, 
That  bred  a  Caesar  for  the  fields  of  war, 

That  nursed  a  Shakespeare  for  the  groves  of  song! 
O,  while  the  healthful  pulses  of  the  world 

Still  throb  with  life,  unquenchable  and  sweet, 
Leave  the  insidious  poison-dart  unhurled — 

Speak  out  pure-toned,  or  silently  retreat: 
Away  with  sickly  symbols  of  foul  lust 
And  crimes  that  gloom  the  heart  with  low  distrust! 


40 


ADA  REHAN  AS  VIOLA. 

Ev'n  now  we  wandered,  grossly  passion-tost, 

Mad  with  the  fierce  desire  for  pow'r  and  gold; 

Strange  peace  has  fallen  on  our  hearts — Behold! 
Like  care-free  children  on  Illyria's  coast 
We  sit,  and  all  the  troubled  past  is  lost — 

Lost  in  the  silver  lapping  of  the  waves ; 

Whilst  the  tone-music  of  a  voice  enslaves 
The  ear  and  our  numb  spirit-sense  is  loosed. 

This  is  the  same  Viola,  love-perplexed, 
That  stirred  the  fancy  of  our  poet-king; 

Shipwrecked,  bewildered,  sorely  tried  and  vexed, 
Yet  gentle-souled,  with  heart  unaltering; 

Masking  as  man,  but  never  once  unsexed; 
Modest  and  pure,  woman  in  everything! 


ADA  REHAN  AS  ROSALIND. 

Content,  in  quiet  hermitage,  I'd  dwell, 

Gleaning  fresh  beauty  from  the  serious  days, 
Could  I  but  meet  at  times,  in  forest-ways, 

Such  forms  as  cluster  in  this  woody  dell — 

Quaint  Touchstone,  with  his  jester  cap  and  bell; 
Love-lorn  Orlando;  Jaques,  in  a  maze 
Of  melancholy, — whilst  free  huntsmen  raise 

Their  song  and  Arden's  bound  in  music-spell. 

What  voice  may  venture  boldly  to  unbind 
This  woven  charm  with  no  art-chanted  wiles? 

What  voice  but  one — the  voice  of  Rosalind! 
Behold!  she  comes  adown  the  leafy  aisles, 

Happy  in  perfect  poise  of  soul  and  mind, 

Rich  in  clear  health  and  care-subduing  smiles! 


42 


KING  LEAR. 

In  wakeful  dreaminess  I  lie  and  read; 
Through  the  thick  branchery,  cloudless  and  clear, 
Peers  the  blue  summer  sky,  sweet  birds  hop  near, 

And  low  brook  music  soothes  the  neighboring  mead ; 

Yet  am  I  storm-lost,  yet  my  heart  does  bleed 
For  pity — Hark!  how  the  wind  howls!   O,  hear, 
Above  the  tempest's  voice,  the  voice  of  Lear 

Rave  to  the  unlistening  void — then,  faint,  recede! 

Faint,  and  more  faint,  booms  the  spent  storm  away; 
Again  the  skies  hang  clear,  the  groves  rejoice, 
And  quiet  fields  again  reflect  the  grace 

And  beauty  of  the  gentle  Summer's  sway; 
And  now  I  hear  Cordelia's  soft,  low  voice, 
And  see  Cordelia's  patient-loving  face. 


43 


TO  SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

Since  Comus  and  the  laughter-loving  gods 
Sang  their  last  song  in  nectarous  delight, 
What  pranks  have  equaled  thine,  thou  fat-paunched 
knight? 

What  madcap  revels,  what  wild  episodes 

In  life's  tame  round,  what  solemn,  drunk-wise  nods, 
What  braggart  boasting  softened  by  the  bright, 
Quick  glow  of  wit,  can  be  compared  aright 

To  thine,  dear  knave,  in  thy  convivial  moods? 

We  love  thee,  Jack,  thou  gross,  thou  sensual  rogue ! 

We'd  rather  see  thy  round  and  ruddy  face 
Than  many  a  sainted  countenance  in  vogue — 

Long-drawn  and  prim  with  a  self-conscious  grace; 
So  lead  the  way,  thou  sly  and  jolly  dog, 

To  the  Boar's  Head — we'll  follow  thee  apace. 


JOHN  KEATS. 

One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  His  Birth,  Oct.  29,  1895. 
"0,   Weep  for  Adonaisj  He  is  Dead." — Shelley 

APOLLO. 

Ye  who  have  long  in  mossy  caverns  kept 

Your  brightness  from  the  world,  ye  who  have  slept 

Away  the  empty  and  slow-creeping  hours 

In  dim  vine-curtained  bowers, — 
O,  all  ye  woodland  spirits,  light  and  fleet, 
Who  throng  the  thick-leaved  groves  and  meadows 

sweet — 

Rough-bearded  satyrs  and  young  sprightly  fauns, 
Guarding   Pan's    fleecy   flocks    on    close-cropped 

lawns 

Among  the  secret  hills;  dryads,  scarce  seen 
Through  giant  ferns  and  clumps  of  speary  green; 
Shy  nymphs  and  naiads,  whom  the  friendly  streams 
Enroof  luxuriously  from  prying  beams — 
Lift  from  your  essences  this  slavish  fear; 

Appear!  appear! 

Leave  forest  coverts  and  cool  dusky  caves, 
Green  mountain  valleys  and  the  foam- white  waves; 
Spirits  of  earth,  air,  sea — afar,  anear — 

Stand  forth  and  hear! 

CHORUS    OF    SPIRITS. 

The  music-echoes  of  Apollo's  voice 

We  hear,  and  we  rejoice; 

From  glaciered  mountains,  shivering  and  numb ; 
From  Southern  valleys,  from  old  Ocean's  foam 

We  come,  we  come! 

45 


APOLLO. 

Listen! 

The  modest  face  of  the  approaching  Day 
Peers  through  the  veiling  clouds  and  earth-mist 

gray, 

And  on  her  brow  I  see 
Contentment  and  serenity  divine, 
And  her  blue  eyeballs  shine 

With  luster  heavenly. 
O,  this  fair  daughter  of  the  favored  Year 

A  child  of  light  did  rear — 
A  son  with  high  and  beauty-passioned  soul, 
With  penetrating  eyes  to  see 
The  dim  spirituality 
That  holds  the  natural  world  in  mild  but  firm 

control. 

Men  said  that  ye  were  dead, 
That  all  the  grace  had  fled 

From  Hellas,  and  that  silent  stood  the  lone  Par 
nassian  mount; 
But  Adonais  spoke, 
And  his  clear  tones  awoke 
The    past — Jove    reigned,    bright    water    gushed 

from  dry  Pieria's  fount. 
Then  we,  who  long  in  trance  had  lain, 

Did  leap  to  life  again! 

Aroused  by  one  who  loved  us,  who  did  rove, 
In  fond  imagination,  through  each  grove 
And  wilderness  we  haunted,  did  ev'n  fare 
Undaunted  through  the  phantom-peopled  air; 
Yea,  cleft  the  briny  secret-hoarding  seas 
And,  in  great  Neptune's  coral  palaces 
46 


Of  quaint  sea-masonry,  such  music  made 
That  keen-eared  nereids  eager  homage  paid 
And  Triton  held  his  spiral  horn  suspended — 
Soundless,  until  that  sweetest  sound  had  ended. 
He  died — his  mortal  days  were  few — and  we 
Again  grew  cold  in  the  world's  memory. 
O,  now,  before  that  churlish  world  ye  spurn 
And  to  your  silent  homes  in  sadness  turn, 
From  its  dumb  shrine  the  Delphian  lyre  taker 
Of  the  faint  past  one  faintest  echo1  wake 
And  sing  a  song  of  joy  for  his  dear  sake. 

CHORUS. 

As  when  Aurora,  rising,  doth  behold, 
Great  Archer,  thy  first  shaft  of  purpled  gold, 

Tinting  base  objects  with  a  heavenly  fire; 
Her  eyes  grow  wonder-large,  her  spirit  glows 
With  emulation,  round  the  orb  she  goes 

To  dress  each  pallid  cloud  in  bright  attire: 
Ev'n  so  thy  arrow-swift  and  burning  flow 
Of  words  doth  cover  all  our  thoughts,  we  glow 

With  thy  reflected  light,  again  we  shake 
Our  limbs  with  old-time  freedom;  and,  Apollo, 
For  thy  loved  son  the  swiftest  star  we'd  follow, 

Singing  a  song  of  joy  for  his  dear  sake. 

SEMI-CHORUS    I. 

The  full-praised  glories  of  the  Spring 

Had  died — Summer's  sweet  self  had  fled, 

When  Autumn,  flushed  with  harvesting, 
Lifted  her  gold-brown  head 

And  saw  such  color-perfect  skies 

47 


And  heard  such  sylvan  harmonies 

Wind  through  the  vivid  air 
That  from  her  hand  the  sickle  fell 
Unnoted;  in  her  breast  did  swell 

Keen  joy;  she  questioned  there 
Why  this  one  day  should  be  so  more  than  earthly  fair. 

SEMI-CHORUS    II. 

Then  we,  who  ever  love  to  haunt 

Beauty's  abode,  the  while  we  chant 
Song  that  may  soothe  and  ease, 

Did  speak;  and  to  the  mazed  Season 

Divulged  calm  Nature's  secret  reason 
For  such  dear  vagaries — 

How  that  the  sober  Earth, 

Hearing  of  thy  rich  birth, 
O,  Adonais.  started  up  as  one  long  dazed  with  sleep; 

And  felt  quick  gladness  glow 

In  her  roused  heart,  and  flow 
Through  her  chill  arteries  with  warm  impetuous  sweep. 

SEMI-CHORUS    I. 

Hearing  thy  voice,  thou  sanguine  child 

Of  harmony,  the  Titans  bold, 
Though  vanquished,  shook  with  passion  wild 

And  spoke  as  gods  of  old. 
Prone  Saturn  reared  his  drowsy  head 
To  listen,  proud  Hyperion's  tread 

Made  all  the  mountains  quake, 
Thea  and  gentle  Clymene 
Rejoiced;  from  his  dark  reverie 

Did  Oceanus  wake, 

48 


And  deemed  his  truant  seas  from  Neptune's  rule  would 
break. 

SEMI-CHORUS    II. 

Thou,  who  didst  hear  Endymion 

Sigh  to  the  chaste  and  lovely  moon, 
When  nightingales  did  grieve; 

Thou,  who  beheld'st  Madeline  dreaming, 

Beneath  that  same  moon's  wintry  beaming, 
On  pure  St.  Agnes'  Eve; 

Thou,  who  didst  lightly  cull, 

From  gardens  beautiful, 

Fancy's  immortal  flow'rs  to  wreathe  round    thy    re 
sponsive  lute, — 

For  thee,  could  our  high  praise 

Avail,  sweet  song  we'd  raise 

Ere  through  the  air  we  softly  fade,  dispersed,  forlorn, 
and  mute. 

APOLLO. 

No;  not  mute! 

For  should  ye  glide  invisible 
To  where  the  hiving  mortals  dwell, 

Charm  man  and  bird  and  brute 
With  Adonais'  sounding  name, 

Till  citied  plain  grows  glad  again, 
And  craggy  hill  and  mountain  hollow 
Reverberate  his  fame. 

VOICES. 
We  hear;  farewell,  Apollo! 


49 


SPRINGTIME  MUSINGS. 

Can  the  man  whose  senses  five 
Are  sensitive  and  all  alive 
With  a  ruddy  flush  of  health 
View  the  Spring's  unfolded  wealth 
That  beneath  his  feet  doth  lie — 
Grasses  of  the  greenest  dye, . 
Dainty  ferns  of  quaint  designs, 
Tangled  in  a  mesh  of  vines; 
White-cupped  blossoms  that  in  time, 
When  the  year  has  "reached  its  prime, 
Will  blush  into  strawberries  ; 
Sunny  spaces,  rich  for  bees 
Harvesting  their  flower-sweets; 
Leafy  nooks  and  cool  retreats, 
Where  the  clear,  bough-shaded  stream 
Shuns  awhile  the  garish  beam, 
Only  to  leap  forth  more  brightly; 
Birds  that  fly  and  sing  so  lightly 
Throughout  all  the  happy  day:— 
Can  he  view  these  things,  I  say, — 
These !  aye,  and  a  hundred  more 
From  rich  Nature's  teeming  store, — 
Scattered  upon  field  and  meadow, 
Underneath  the  forest  shadow, 
On  hillside  and  bank  of  river, — 

50 


Without  some  uplifting  quiver 
Of  delight  and  simple  joy? 

At  such  times  what  thoughts  can  cloy 

With  their  subtle  influence 

The  serenity  of  sense 

And  smooth  surface  of  the  mind? 

Everything  is  left  behind 

In  the  world  that  fostered  it ; 

All  the  brain's  uphoarded  wit — 

Thoughts  of  earth-directed  fame, 

Plans  of  wealth-amassing  aim, 

Dreams  ambitious,  proud  and  fell, 

Sin-born  fantasies  from  hell, 

Doubts  and  conflicts  of  the  soul, — 

All  alike  do  fade  and  roll 

Far  away  from  mortal  feeling 

And  recall,  as  softly  stealing 

O'er  the  late  sore-anguished  heart, 

Comes  sweet  balm  for  every  smart 

Made  by  angry  Fortune's  spite. 

Then  it  is  each  fresh  delight 

That  the  waking  earth  affords 

Strikes  upon  our  being's  chords 

Songs  of  light  and  symphonies 

Of  unforced  melodies, 

And  the  opened  eyes  discern 

On  the  tip  of  frailest  fern 

Shapes  for  spirit-alchemy; 

Then  emotions  pure,  and  free 

From  stern  thought's  impertinence, 

Live  and  glow  with  joy  intense. 


Many  golden  songs  were  sung, 
When  the  world  was  fresh  and  young, 
Of  the  emerald-vested  Spring; 
Many  more  will  poets  sing, 
Ere  God  Mammon's  fingers  cold 
Grasp  all  hearts  in  greedy  hold; 
Or,  ere  Earth,  in  Time's  hard  vise 
Compressed  to  a  ball  of  ice, 
Lies  beneath  her  cloak  of  air, 
Bleak  and  dreary,  lifeless,  bare. 

O,  what  cares  the  soul  for  creeds, 

When,  on  every  side,  it  reads 

Lessons  of  divinest  truth, 

And  beholds  the  radiant  youth 

Of  the  new  upstarting  year! 

All  the  sorrows  that  appear 

On  the  calendar  of  life, 

All  the  dark  historic  strife 

That  mankind  have  waged  for  ages, 

All  philosophy  of  sages, 

Songs  of  poets,  heavenly  tender, 

Prophets'  visions,  and  the  splendor 

That  inspired  minds  have  wrought 

In  the  highest  fanes  of  thought, — 

Now  but  seem  of  little  worth; 

For  sweet  Spring  has  decked  the  earth 

In  a  new  array  of  treasures, 

And  we  feel  a  thousand  pleasures, 

Born  of  sunlight  and  the  air, 

Floating  round  us  everywhere. 


Though  the  past  is  gone,  is  dead, 
Yet  the  blue  sky  overhead 
Gazes  on  this  lower  place 
With  a  clear,  unfurrowed  face, 
Canopying  all  our  pleasure 
With  its  never-fading  azure. 
Ev'n  as  now  I,  musing,  lean — 
Arm-propped — on  this  bank  of  green, 
Viewing  varied  joys  and  pains, 
Struggles,  triumphs,  losses,  gains, 
Of  a  little  insect  world, 
With  its  minute  life  unfurled 
For  my  all-too-careless  eye; 
So  above  our  heads  the  sky — 
An  impenetrable  screen — 
Hangs  untroubled  and  serene, 
Studying  our  human  lot 
With  a  brow  that  wrinkles  not. 

By  the  spirit-soothing  power 

Of  each  sweetly-breathing  flower, 

By  the  song  of  lark  and  thrush, 

By  the  purl  of  brooks  that  rush 

On  their  ever  restless  way, 

By  the  warmth  of  sunny  ray, 

By  the  leaves  of  greenest  trees, 

By  the  hum  of  active  bees, 

By  the  wings  of  butterflies, 

By  all  beauty  that  now  lies 

On  the  earth  this  present  hour, — 

I  do  swear  that  Spring's  sweet  dower 

To  the  world  does  put  to  shame 

53 


Seasons  of  a  prouder  name 
With  its  prodigal  excess — 
Shaming  Summer's  languidness, 
Autumn's  sad  and  sober  face, 
Winter's  stiffly-feeble  pace. 
Higher  praise  I  cannot  sing 
Than  this — O,  accept  it,  Spring! 


54 


WHERE? 

Where's  life's  sweet  harmony- 

Where  has  it  flown? 
Far  under  Discord's  sea 

It  may  have  gone; 
Or  to  a  desert  free 

Wandered  alone: 
O,  where's  life's  harmony! 

Where  has  it  flown? 

Where's  life's  simplicity — 

Where  has  it  fled? 
To  some  Arcadian  lea, 

Which  shepherds  tread? 
Or  can, — O,  misery! 

Can  it  be  dead? 
Where's  life's  simplicity — 

Where  has  it  fled? 

Where's  life's  sincerity — 

Where  does  it  dwell? 
In  some  few  hearts,  maybe, 

That  hide  it  well. 
In  souls,  unconsciously? 

But  who  can  tell! 
Where's  life's  sincerity — 

Where  does  it  dwell? 


55 


MAMMON'S  BRIDE. 

The  world  that  once  so  freely  danced 
With  Nature  through  unmeasured  space, 

Lies  now  bewildered  and  entranced 
In  Mammon's  hard  and  cold  embrace. 

And  all  those  flow'rs  that  brightly  grew 
In  Fancy's  rich  and  healthy  meads, 

Have  sucked  the  common  swamp-born  dew 
That  changes  all  to  loathsome  weeds. 

O  Bride!  thou  art  too  poorly  matched, 
Though  Plutus'  riches  all  are  thine; 

Although  with  gold  thy  roof  is  thatched 
And  gems  unnumbered  for  thee  shine. 

Forsake  that  palace,  proudly  cold, 

With  all  its  killing  selfishness; 
Return  to  thy  dear  haunts  of  old 

To  dwell  a  simple  shepherdess! 

There  joyous  Pan  will  welcome  thee 
To  scentful  realms  of  freshest  green, 

And  nymphs  and  dryads  lovingly 

Will  crown  thee  as  their  sylvan  queen. 

The  shepherd  swains  will  blithely  dance, 
And  all  their  songs  for  thee  will  sing, 

Till  Nature  warms  before  thy  glance, 
And  life  becomes  one  golden  Spring. 


BOOKLAND. 

Let's  travel  through  Bookland  together; 

'Tis  a  pleasanter  land  than  you  think, 
Though  the  ground  is  all  paper  and  leather 

And  the  streams  and  the  rivers  are  ink. 

Shall  we  enter  the  gates  of  that  city? 

Fair  Athens!  o'erwatched  by  her  hill; 
And,  in  spirit,  her  orators  witty, — 

Her  poets,  are  dwelling  there  still. 

Come,  sit  'neath  this  plane  tree  and  listen 
To  the  teachings  of  Plato  the  wise, 

Till  philosophy's  grandeur  does  glisten 
As  it  ne'er  did  before  to  our  eyes. 

Or,  if  you  are  too  great  a  roamer 
To  sit  in  that  grove  of  cool  thought, 

We'll  travel  through  Greece  with  old  Homer 
To  the  fields  where  his  proud  heroes  fought. 

We'll  speak  to  Jason  and  Medea ; 

With  Plutarch  at  Rome  we  will  feast; 
Then  we'll  take  a  short  trip  through  Judea, 

And  drink  of  the  streams  of  the  East. 

Over  the  dark  desert  of  Ages 
We'll  journey,  with  hardly  a  glance, 

Till  we  come  to  where  Dante's  stern  pages 
Awoke  the  sad  Muse  from  her  trance. 

57 


With  Chaucer  we'll  merrily  wander, 

Until  Spencer  takes  us  in  hand 
To  lead  us  where  Shakespeare  does  ponder — 

Shakespeare,  the  bright  king  of  the  land. 

His  throne  is  of  mosses  and  flowers; 

His  scepter — a  simple  goose  quill; 
His  crown — of  the  laurel  that  towers 

O'er  the  famed  Parnassian  hill. 

Around  him  are  spirits  immortal, 
Whose  music  still  lightens  the  earth; 

They  have  passed  through  Death's  misty  portal, 
And  have  risen  in  happier  birth. 

There  are  Chatterton,  Byron  and  Shelley; 

And  Burns,  with  soul  like  a  flame; 
And  throughout  that  heavenly  valley 

Are  dwelling  bright  children  of  Fame. 

O,  could  we  but  live  'midst  those  beauties 
That  the  souls  of  immortals  do  weave ; 

But  hark!  the  cold  world  and  its  duties 
Are  calling  us,  and  we  must  leave. 


CUPID'S  PRAYER. 

Through  fair  Arcadia  blindly  wandering, 

Led  by  the  siren  Fancy  far  astray, 
I  chanced  near  by  a  vine-embowered  spring, 

Where,  half-asleep,  the  tiny  Love-God  lay — 
His  unstrung  bow  lay  loosely  at  his  side, 
And  down  his  cheeks  two  sun-bright  tears  did  glide. 

Starting  at  length  from  his  uneasy  dream, 

He  shook  those  watery  splendors  from  his  eyes, 

Which,  falling  to  the  earth,  did  hiss  and  gleam, 
Till  in  their  place  a  stainless  spring  did  rise; 

Compared  to  which  its  purling  neighbor's  spray 

Was  as  the  night-cloud  to  the  sky  of  day. 

Then  did  young  Cupid  break  his  dainty  bow, 
And  all  his  arrows  into  bits  did  shiver; 

And,  with  a  sigh  of  deep  heart-rending  woe, 
Into  the  stream  he  cast  his  empty  quiver: 

Then  wearily  he  lifted  up  his  eyes, 

In  earnest  invocation  to  the  skies. 

"Great  Jove!"  he  cried,  "I  now  resign  all  power 
To  kindle  love-sparks  in  these  earthly  hearts, 

Since  the  harsh  world  grows  colder  every  hour, 
And  turns  aside  my  nectar-scented  darts. 

O,  let  me  die!  for  men  have  grown  so  cold 

That  darts  fall  blunted  unless  tipped  with  gold. 

59 


"The  subtle  magic  of  my  utmost  art 

Can  force  no  entrance  to  these  breasts  of  flint; 
Or  if  by  chance  I  touch  a  mellow  heart, 

The  world  soon  kills  all  tender  passion  in  't: 
Poor  bruised  Love  stands  weeping  at  the  gate, 
While  Mammon  feasts  in  rich,  but  gloomy  state. 

"Gone  are  those  days,  forever,  ever  gone, 

When  shepherd-kings  did  worship  at  my  shrine, 

When  my  warm  name  to  every  swain  was  known, 
And  the  best  honors  of  the  world  were  mine. 

Jove!  my  vain  breath  to  dull  oblivion  give — 

Since  my  life's  life  is  dead,  why  should  I  live?" 


60 


SYLVIUS  AND  PHEBE. 

A    PASTORAL. 

Sylvius  to  Phebe  said, 
As  their  flocks  together  fed, 
On  the  green  mead's  tenderness, — 
"Phebe,  my  own  shepherdess, 
Dearer  to  my  love-swayed  heart 
Than  the  violets  that  start 
From  beneath  the  hedge  are  dear 
To  the  common  grasses  near! 
Phebe,  how  this  simple  scene — 
Pastures,  sun-kissed  and  serene, 
Nursed  by  their  cool  guardian  springs- 
Sinks  into  my  mind,  and  brings 
From  the  cells  of  memory 
Strains  of  life's  past  melody! 
How  when  I,  a  sighing  swain, 
Loved  thee,  and  thou  didst  disdain 
That  strong  love  I  breathed  from  me, 
With  passion's  purest  purity; 
How  thou  scoffed  at  all  my  vows, 
Under  Arden's  pitying  boughs, 
Until  dainty  Rosalind 
Did  our  hearts  together  bind." 

61 


Phebe  said  to  Sylvius, — 
"What  if  I  did  treat  thee  thus, 
In  my  girlish  fickleness? 
Surely  thou  hadst  wit  to  guess 
That  a  woman's  dearest  pleasure 
Is  to  spite  her  heart's  true  treasure; 
Otherwise  how  could  she  prove 
,The  unselfishness  of  love? 
But  enough  of  bygone  sorrow! 
Joy  is  present,  and  to-morrow 
Will  be  like  a  bright  reflection 
Of  to-day's  unveiled  perfection. 
Ev'n  as  this  young  meadow  brook 
Counterfeits  the  flowers  that  look 
On  its  laughing  loveliness, 
So  each  day  will  wear  the  dress 
Of  the  one  that  dies  before  it, 
That  o>ur  eyes  may  e'er  adore  it!" 

Sylvius  to  Phebe  said, — 

"As  we  through  these  meadows  tread, 

Let  us  send  our  thoughts,  in  sport, 

To  Orlando's  distant  court. 

Canst  imagine  Rosalind, 

Free  and  joyous  as  the  wind, 

Cased  in  rich  and  silken  gown, 

Slow  of  gait  and  sobered  down 

To  a  staid  and  courtly  dame? 

Phebe,  no;  it  were  a  shame 

Thus  to  image  to  the  mind 

The  lithe  form  of  Rosalind ! 

She  shall  dance  before  our  eyes 

62 


In  her  simple  shepherd  guise, 
As  the  saucy  Ganymede. 
Ah!  I  see  that  name  doth  breed 
On  each  cheek  a  crimson  rose — 
Let  me  steal  one  ere  it  goes!" 

What  that  shepherd  bold  did  steal 
The  chaste  Muse  will  not  reveal; 
But,  'tis  said  the  pretty  sheep, 
In  the  clover, — half  asleep — 
Slowly  raised  their  dreamy  eyes, 
With  a  sort  of  mild  surprise ; 
Then,  in  wisest  manner,  they 
Turned  their  heads  the  other  way: 
For  sheep,  spite  of  Slander's  book, 
Aren't  as  foolish  as  they  look. 


A  MADRIGAL. 

O  the  sky,  how  blue  it  is! 
O  thy  love,  how  true  it  is! 
O  the  earth,  how  fair  it  is! 
O  our  life,  how  rare  it  is! 

And  though  Time  reaps  all  of  them, 
Now  we'll  heed  the  call  of  them, 
'Mid  the  heart's  delicious  strife — 
Nature,  Love  and  Life. 


SONG. 

O,  and  what  were  the  joy  o'  the  fields — 

The  bird-notes  loose  and  free, 
The  perfumes  light  and  the  flowers  bright, 

To  hear,  and  to  breathe,  and  to  see, — 
If  thou  shared  not  with  me,  my  Love, 

If  thou  shared  not  with  me! 

But  thou  stand'st  clear  i'  the  golden  warmth, 

And  hear,  and  breathe,  and  see ; 
And  the  world's  complete,  and  life's  as  sweet 

As  the  life  of  the  roving  bee: 
For  thou  shar'st  all  with  me,  my  Love, 

O,  thou  shar'st  all  with  me! 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 

Winged  Joy,  as  light  and  brisk 

As  a  summer  fly, 
In  the  heart  can  dive  and  frisk — 

O,  so  restlessly! 

Quick  to  come,  and  quick  at  play; 
Quicker  still  to  dart  away. 

Sorrow's  feet  are  weak  and  slow, 
Like  the  tedious  snail's; 

O'er  the  bleeding  heart  they  go, 
Leaving  crooked  trails: 

Slow  to  come  is  truest  Pain, 

Slow — how  slow! — to  leave  again. 


66 


AUTUMN. 

'Tis  the  Autumn  of  the  year! 
The  air  is  cool  and  clear; 
The  world  is  colored  new 
In  yellow,  white  and  blue — 
Frosty  ground  and  azure  sky 

And  golden  stubble-field: 
Pictures  rich  for  soul  and  eye 

Are  now  revealed. 

What  though  lusty  Summer's  green 
No  more  on  trees  is  seen — 
The  branches  flame  instead 
With  leaves  of  gold  and  red; 
What  though  singing-birds  forsake 

The  woods  and  meadows  bare — 
The  wild  fowl  rustle  in  the  brake 

Arid  whirr  through  air. 

Wine  of  life!    O  tingling  air! 
Away  with  every  care! 
Bounding  o'er  field  and  hill, 
We'll  breathe,  we'll  breathe  our  fill: 
Clambering  the  river-bank, 

Shaking  the  nut-rich  trees — 
O,  what  city  joys  can  rank 

With  joys  like  these! 


LITERARY  MUSINGS. 

Corked  up  in  Memory's  bottle, 

I've  gems  from  Aristotle; 

I  have  gone  through  Homer's  epics  and  have  stuck  my 
nose  in  Plato; 

I  have  formed  a  good  idea 

Of  Euripides'  "Medea," 
Aristophanes  and  ^Eschylus,  and  Smith  on  "The  Potato." 

Sappho,  Ovid,  Virgil,  Horace, 

And  many  a  Grecian  chorus, 

Are  jumbled  up  together  with  Josh  Billings,  Twain  and 
•Nye; 

While  Shakespeare,  Scott  and  Dickens, 

And  "The  Way  to  Raise  Young  Chickens," 
All  mix  within  my  head  to  form  a  literary  pie. 

But  ne'er  in  verse  or  story, 

Nor  in  the  drama's  glory, 
Nor  in  the  bright,  romantic  tale,  nor  in  the  briny  yarn, 

Have  I  found  that  satisfaction, 

Which  I  drew  in  youth's  abstraction 

From  the  blood-and-thunder  novel  that  I  read  behind  the 
barn. 


68 


THE  MAN  WHO  LIKED  A  JOKE. 

His  life  had  bright  and  cheerful  been, 

Good  fortune  on  him  smiled, 
His  brow  was  smooth,  his  eyes  serene, 

His  temper  soft  and  mild; 
No  trouble  ever  came  his  way, 

His  patience  to  provoke, 
Until  he  said  to  friends  one  day, — 

"I  like  to  hear  a  joke." 

From  that  time  forth  he  was  a  wreck, 

His  life  was  dark  and  sad; 
He  lost  his  peace  and  self-respect 

And  drifted  to  the  bad. 
And  men  would  point  to  him  and  say: 

"There  goes  the  weary  poke, 
With  figure  bowed  and  hair  so  gray, 

Who  likes  to  hear  a  joke." 

For  wits  of  every  sort  and  class — 

Each  with  his  funny  tale — 
Would  seize  him  as  he  tried  to  pass, 

Their  humor  to  unveil. 
And  so  it  chanced  one  day,  alas ! 

His  heart  in  anguish  broke: 
They  laid  beneath  the  frozen  grass 

The  man  who  liked  a  joke. 


69 


GREAT  CJESAR'S  GHOST. 

A  lobster  salad  I  devoured  that  night; 

A  dozen  oysters  disappeared  from  sight — > 

Some  soft-shelled  crabs,  a  piece  of  hot  mince  pie, 

And  divers  things  that  charmed  the  hungry  eye 

Soon  followed  in  due  time :  then  home  I  sped, 

Took  off  my  clothes,  and  rolled  into  my  bed. 

No  wonder  'twas  that  in  my  troubled  sleep 

I  fought  with  sharks  and  monsters  of  the  deep; 

Waded  through  blood,  was  killed  a  thousand  times,- 

The  living  victim  of  a  thousand  crimes. 

At  length  my  visions  took  a  milder  turn — 

Tied  to  a  stake  I  had  begun  to  burn, 

When  suddenly  I  woke — or  seemed  to  wake — 

And  saw  a  sight  that  fairly  made  me  shake. 

There  by  the  bed  a  silent  image  stood 
That  was  not  formed  of  mortal  flesh  and  blood ; 
A  vapor  tall  and  mystical  and  white, 
Shaped  like  a  man,  yet  unlike  human  wight. 
Its  features  stern  were  softened  by  a  wreath 
Of  laurel  branches,  while  the  eyes  beneath 
Were  dull  and  beamless  as  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Kind  reader,  'tis  superfluous  to  write 
How  my  hair  rose  at  such  a  fearful  sight, 
To  talk  of  quills  on  fretful  porcupine, 
Of  chattering  teeth  and  chills  along  the  spine; 
70 


Suffice  to  say  that,  in  my  fear  and  dread, 

I  pulled  the  bed-clothes  high  above  my  head. 

Alas !  all  efforts  to  escape  were  vain — 
I  felt  the  blankets  slipping  down  again; 
Then  growing  brave,  in  my  extreme  despair, 
I  asked  the  specter  if  he'd  take  a  chair. 
"Thanks,"  said  the  ghost,  "I  don't  care  if  I  do. 
A  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing  you; 
But,  grown  full  weary  of  my  midnight  walk, 
I  just  dropped  in  to  have  a  social  talk." 

"And  who,"  said  I,  my  fears  somewhat  allayed, 

"Has  to  my  house  this  flattering  visit  made?" 

The  phantom  searched  his  misty  robe  awhile, 

And  then  exclaimed:    "Confound  your  modern  style! 

I  must  have  left  my  calling-cards  at  home 

In  some  dark  corner  of  my  musty  tomb. 

Well,  Julius  Caesar  was  my  mortal  name — 

Still  found,!  think,  upon  the  rolls  of  fame. 

I  was  a  hero  in  that  elder  day, 

And  managed  generally  to  have  my  way. 

I  made  the  world  a  cushion  for  my  feet, 

And  fought  more  battles  than  I  need  repeat, — 

Making  things  hum,  till  greedy  Death  one  day, 

With  sudden  roughness,  snatched  my  soul  away: 

But  of  my  earthly  deeds  I'll  speak  no  more, 

As  you,  no  doubt,  have  heard  of  them  before." 

"Indeed  I  have,"  I  hastened  to  reply, 
"And  (beg  your  pardon)  thought  them  very  dry : 
The  tortured  youth  who  languishes  in  school 
Must  read  his  'Csesar'  or  remain  a  fool." 

71 


"Ev'n  in  these  times,"  remarked  the  social  ghost, 
"The  ancient  customs  are  esteemed  the  most. 
Men  ever  love  to  gaze  on  things  behind, 
And  with  dead  lumber  load  the  living  mind ; 
And  as,  my  friend,  the  more  I  strive  to  keep 
Up  with  your  time  I  grow  the  more  antique — 
In  thought  I  mean,  for  modern  enterprise 
Has  bade  new  wonders  from  the  dust  arise; 
Invented  steamships,  chained  'lectricity, 
Laid  rails  on  land  and  cables  'neath  the  sea: 
Still,  do  I  find  your  greatest  minds  employ 
The  self-same  themes  I  discussed  when  a  boy; 
See  in  your  papers,  newly  dressed  each  week, 
The  same  old  jokes  that  pleased  the  ancient  Greek. 
If  once  again  I  could  have  mortal  breath, 
I  am  afraid  I'd  soon  be  bored  to  death." 

"Hold  on!"  I  cried,  "Some  demon,  I  suspect, 

Has  prejudiced  your  failing  intellect 

Against  this  country,  or  you  deem  it  smart 

To  rail,  like  Kipling,  o'er  our  lack  of  art. 

No  doubt  the  slaves  who  slaughtered  hogs  at  Rome 

Were  more  expert  than  we  can  e'er  become." 

"Hogs!"  cried  great  Caesar.    "I  would  fain  depart — 
To  talk  of  such  things  makes  me  sick  at  heart. 
O,  what  a  soul  that  finds  no  higher  flight 
Than  sticking  pigs  and  feasting  late  at  night! 
I  will  away  and  seek  some  nobler  mind, 
To  reasoning  given  and  to  thought  inclined. 
Farewell,  base  clod!    I  leave  you  now  with  speed. 
Great  heavens,  what  a  person!    Hogs,  indeed!" 
72 


"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  remarked;  "restrain 
Your  righteous  anger  and  your  seat  retain; 
And,  in  the  place  of  lowly  hogs  and  pelf, 
We'll  talk  about  your  deeds,  sir,  and — yourself." 

This  last  suggestion  charmed  the  ghostly  man; 

He  kept  his  seat,  and  I  straightway  began: 

"So  thou  wert  Caesar,  equally  as  great 

In  field  of  battle  as  in  hall  of  state; 

Wise  as  an  author,  as  a  ruler  fit 

To  judge  the  world  with  thy  imperious  wit: 

So  thou  wert  he,  who  now,  a  lonely  ghost, 

Wander  around  as  though  your  head  were  lost — 

I'd  rather  be,  safe  in  his  cozy  bed, 

John  Smith  alive  than  Julius  Csesar  dead. 

What  wilt  thou  gain  from  earthly  pomp  and  fame 

When  unborn  mortals  ponder  o'er  thy  name? 

What  use  is  it  to  stand  austerely  proud, 

The  lofty  hero  to  a  gaping  crowd? 

What  use  is  it — "     But  here  my  guest  arose. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "I  think  you'd  better  close 

Your  wild  harangue;  your  flighty  mind  is  dense 

With  stupid  thoughts,  and  quite  devoid  of  sense. 

Profane  not  things  you'll  never  feel  or  know; 

Your  brain's  as  shallow  as  your  thoughts  are  low; 

And  all — "  What  his  ghostship  would  next  have  said 

I  never  knew;  he  turned  and  weirdly  fled. 

"Adieu!"  he  cried,  "  'tis  time  I  should  be  hence." 

Thrice  screamed  a  tom-cat  on  a  neighbor's  fence, 

The  town  clock  struck,  a  rooster  loudly  crew, 

An  officer  woke,  but  did  his  sleep  renew; 

A  sand-bagged  pilgrim  moaned  in  his  despair, 

73 


And  blue-streaked  lightning  zigzagged  through  the  air. 
***** 

Chill  morning  broke :    behold  me  on  the  floor — 

A  tangled  mass !      My  father  at  the  door 

Was  entering  my  room,  and  as  he  crost 

The  threshold  he  exclaimed, — "Great  Caesar's  Ghost!" 


74 


SONNETS. 


A  PIECE  OF  BLUE. 

Between  two  clouds  a  piece  of  heaven's  pure  blue 

Stands  like  an  angel  'twixt  opposing-  hosts; 

Or,  like  unchanging  God  'mong    wavering 

ghosts ; 
Or,  like  a  glimpse  of  glory,  showing  through 

The  cloud-framed  window  of  a  paradise — 
But  no;  all  similes  do  prove  untrue, 
And  he — too  bold! — who  writes  of  that  rare  hue 

Must  first  steal  ink  from  heaven's  own  violet 
skies. 

O,  were  I  a  light  cloud !  then  would  I  soar, 
Serenely  borne,  through  that  ethereous  main; 

Though  earthly  lusts  might  seize  me  as  before, 
And  hurl  me  down  in  bud-awakening  rain, 

Still  the  kind  sun  my  being  would  restore, — 
Lifting  me  free  to  that  blue  dome  again. 


75 


THOREAU. 

Few  are  free  Nature's  children — few,  indeed, — 
In  these  cold  days,  when  all-pervading  Art 
Brushes  the  morning1  freshness  from  the  heart 

And  in  conventional  gardens  sows  life-seed: 

Few  are  the  minds  that  break  from  custom's  lead 
To  hew  rough  paths,  far  from  the  central 

mart, — 
Seeking  to  form  of  God's  pure  work  a  part, 

And  on  the  living  truths  of  nature  feed. 

But  thou,  Thoreau,  wert  made  for  life's  free  plan! 
Wert  brother  to  the  flow'rs,  the  rocks,  the 

trees! 

Spurning  the  tongue-born  flatteries  of  man, 
To  learn  the  language    of    each    tongueless 

breeze, — 
Thou,  aft  the  feet  of  universal  Pan, 

Gleaned   vibrant   truth-notes    from     Earth's 
melodies. 


THE  THOUGHT  OF  DEATH. 
(Decoration  Day — 1892.) 

The  thought  of  death  is  dreamlike,  for  it  keeps 
Apart  from  the  Mind's  children, — like  a  ghost, 
Ev'n  unto  shadows.     All  the  brain-born  host, 

Save  it,  rise,  live  and  die, — like  mist  that  sweeps 

Into  the  sunlight  and  dissolves.     It  sleeps, 
But  wakes  again — now  stilled,  now  tost — 
'Tis  hid  by  Pleasure's  phantoms,  but  ne'er  lost, 

Till  Death  himself  the  final  harvest  reaps. 

And  on  this  day  to  every  mind  it  conies 
And  bids  us  pause  a  moment,  as  we  strew 

The  Spring's  fair  blossoms  o'er  heroic  tombs, 
To  question  if  our  hearts  be  loyal  and  true, 

And  not  vain,  hollow,  superficial  rooms 
To  shelter  folly  from  the  keen  world's  view. 


77 


A  RAINY  MAY. 

Thou  hast,  cruel  May,  with  strange  perversity, 

Belied  the  promise  of  thy  dainty  name 

And  changed  thy  former  glory  into  shame; 
For  whilst,  expectant,  we  did  wait  for  thee, 
Longing  with  eager  hearts  thy  smiles  to  see, 

Cam'st  thou  attired  like    the    Storm-King's 
dame, 

In  cloud-hued  dress  and  mantle  of  the  same, 
And  wept  more  tears  than  sad-eyed  Niobe 
Ere  she  was  turned  to  marble.     So,  farewell! 

But  when  the  cycle  of  another  year 
Shows  us  thy  face  again,  may  the  soft  spell 

Of  thy  remembered  charms  in  thee  appear: 
Then  our  loud  welcomes  will  the  glad  wind  tell, 

And  blow  sweet  praises  in  thy  pardoned  ear. 


JUNE  GREETING. 

Much  has  been  sung  of  June,  and  honeyed  phrases 
Have  fall'n  so  often  on  her  flattered  ear 
That  she  may  greet  this  tribute  with  a  sneer, 

And  turn  her  head  to  seek  those  richer  praises 

That  round  her  buzz,  like  bees  round  garden  vases; 
Yet,  if  her  mood  be  kindly,  she  may  hear, — 
For  few  there  are  who  hold  the  rose  so  dear 

That  they  would  look  disdain  upon  the  daisies. 

Therefore,  sweet  month,  I  dare  to  give  thee  greet 
ing— 
Thou  first  mild  child  of  Summer,  whose  caress 

Cradles  those  laggard  buds  that  Spring  in  fleeting 
Left  still  unnursed  in  lonely  friendlessness, 

Until  they  bloom  to  beauty,  and,  repeating 
Their  fragrant  thanks,  bless  thee  who  did  them 
bless! 


79 


SLAVES  OF  MAMMON. 

I'd  rather  dwell  with  satyrs  in  a  wood, 
And  tread  brisk  measures  to  an  ill-tuned  lute ; 
Yes,  rather  range  half  man  and  half  a  brute, 

Dreaming  away  my  life  in  solitude, 

Giving  free  rein  to  every  passing  mood, — 
Than  mix  with  those  who  lead  the  mad  pursuit 
In  chase  of  wealth ;  who  tramp  on  good  repute, 

Break  noble  hearts,  and  track  their  way  in  blood. 

By  heaven !  it  is  a  sin — a  black,  foul  sin — 
A  sin  too  foul  and  black  to  find  a  name — 
To  grind  down  hearts  into  a  golden  dust; 

To  mount  on  souls,  and  lightly  step  within 
That  heartless  kingdom,  where  jointly  do  reign 
The  twin-born  monarchs,  deformed  Wealth 
and  Lust. 


80 


FANCY. 

Who  has  not  met  at  times,  on  Life's  rough  road, 
The  fairy  Fancy  at  her  busy  play, 
Spinning  light  webs  and  painting  pictures  gay 

O'er  Nature's  wayside  screen?     'Tis  then  the  load 

Of  perplexed  thought  that  finds  its  deep  abode 
In  human  minds  yields  to  the  magic  sway 
Of  calmer,  softer  themes  and  glides  away, 

While  airy  dreams  are  in  its  place  bestowed. 

Dreams — only    gainless    dreams — but    yet     how 

sweet ! 
How  full  of  peace  and  soothing  pow'r  they  are! 

Lifting  the  soul  above  the  grimy  street, 

Where  toil  and  strife  and  worldly  scheming 
jar 

Life's  higher  music;  for  young  Fancy's  feet 

Climb  up  the  moonbeam  path  and  rove  from  star 
to  star. 


81 


MUSIC. 

The  world  is  rich  with  music.     Every  stream 

Outpurls  its  song  with  voiceful  eloquence ; 

The  winds  that  whistle  through  the  forest  dense 
Strike  on  the  harp-like  trees  some  ghostly  theme; 
The  ocean  waves  in  mournful  dirges  seem 

To  vent  their  sorrows  and  their  griefs  intense ; 
The  caves  with  lengthy  echoes  charm  the  sense — 
All  nature  is  encased  in  Music's  dream. 
The  birds,  the  bees,  the  crickets,  all  proclaim, 

In  grateful  numbers,  their  accustomed  song; 
While,  like  sweet  Orpheus  of  ancient  fame, 

Who  thrilled  the  senseless  rocks  with  passion 

strong, 
The  human  soul,  kindled  by  heavenly  flame, 

Hath  caught  those  sounds  which  to  the  gods 
belong. 


82 


THE  CAPTIVE  SPRING. 

The  captive  Spring  is  fettered  in  green  moss 

And  bound  with  woven  lengths  of  viny  sweet 
ness, 
As  though  the  old  Earth,  fearful  of  the  loss 

Of  her  fair  child,  had  checked  the  eager  fleet- 
ness 

Of  those  lithe  limbs  (dancing    to    Time's    quick 
measure) 

In  bonds  more  intricate  than  aught  e'er  shaped 
By  Daedalus'  art  from  Vulcan's  melted  treasure : 

But  lo!  already  she  has  half  escaped 
From  those  bright  meshes  and  is  wandering, 

New  garlanded  and  with  fresh  violets  crowned, 
Through  budding  forest,  and  by  shady  spring, 

And  o'er  the  meadow's  emerald-dusted  ground. 
Linger,  mild  Season,  pray  no  further  roam, 
Nor  heed  old  Saturn  in  his  airy  dome ! 


THE  LILAC  BUSH. 

A  lilac  bush  under  my  window  grows, 

And  I  deem  it  sweeter  far 
Than  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  cultured  rose 

That  blooms  in  a  gilded  jar. 

For  it  gazes  at  me  with  its  hundred  eyes 

Of  the  richest  purple  hue, 
Like  bunches  of  stars  of  a  miniature  size, 

Torn  down  from  the  heavens  of  blue. 

It  nods  a  "good  morning"  and  "how  do  you  do" 

To  flowers  that  flourish  near  by, 
And  has  a  kind  look  for  the  whole  floral  crew 

And  the  birds  that  over  it  fly. 

It  breathes  on  the  air  with  so  sweet  a  perfume, 

Suggestive  of  regions  more  blest, 
That  though  many  flowers  in  the  universe  bloom, 

I  love  the  fair  lilac  the  best. 


84 


MORNING. 

Young  Morning  combed  her  tresses 

And  drank  a  cup  of  dew; 
Then  from  her  many  dresses 

She  chose  a  robe  of  blue, 
And  o'er  her  shoulders  fair  a  golden  mantle  threw. 

The  baby  stars  were  sleeping 

Behind  a  purple  bank, 
As,  through  the  thin  clouds  creeping, 
Down  to  the  earth  she  sank; 
Down  through  the  heavy  air,  so  still  and  cold  and 
dank. 

But  soon,  beneath  her  touches, 

The  cold  gray  shadows  died, 
And  from  Night's  gloomy  clutches 

The  joyful  world  did  glide, 
While  Nature's  rarest  scenes  sprang  up  on  every 
side. 

'Twas  then  the  roguish  Morning, 
With  wild  and  healthful  glee — 

All  crude  assistance  scorning — 

Sprang  down  upon  the  sea, 
Tinting  with  gold  the  waves  so  clear  and  silvery. 

Then  up  the  seabeach  gliding, 

She  plunged  into  a  wood 
Where  flowers  wild  were  hiding 

In  tangled  solitude, 
And  bade  each  tender  face  peep  from  its  dewy  hood. 

85 


A  moment  did  she  linger 

Among  the  blossoms  fair, 
Op'ning  with  gentle  ringer 

The  sick  and  dying  there; 

Then  on  her  journey  sped — sweet  phantom  of  the 
air! 

The  birds,  with  happy  singing, 

Did  greet  her  rosy  face, 
As  on  high  branches  swinging 

They  viewed  the  lightsome  grace 
With  which  she  rode  the  sea  or  moved  from  place 
to  place. 

And  so  the  fair  Aurora, 

All  beautiful  and  light, 
Drove  Darkness  far  before  her 

With  unrelenting  might, 

And  dressed  the  chilly  world  in  garments  warm 
and  bright. 

But  when  old  Sol  was  shining 
From  golden  throne  on  high, 
Upon  a  beam  reclining 

She  mounted  to  the  sky, — 

Bidding  her  earthly  friends  a  fond  and  soft  good 
bye. 


86 


ON  THE  RIVER. 

Drifting 

Down  the  shallow,  lazy  river, 
Through  the  reeds  that  gently  quiver 

Near  the  shore, 
And  the  water-lily  lifting 

With  my  oar. 

Dreaming 

'Neath  an  overhanging  willow, 
Where  my  boat  has  found  a  pillow 

In  the  moss, 
Dreams  all  free  from  worldly  scheming 

And  earth-dross. 

Framing 

Visions  fraught  with  truer  pleasure 
For  the  soul  than  golden  treasure, 

Sparkling  bright; 
And  life's  petty  troubles  shaming 

With  their  light. 

Rowing 

O'er  the  waters  calm  and  gleaming, 
When  the  evening  stars  are  beaming 

Far  above 
And  a  spicy  breeze  is  blowing 

From  the  grove. 

87 


Ever 

In  my  mind  a  scene  is  dwelling- 
Its  true  beauty  far  excelling 

All  the  rest — 
'Tis  a  modest,  peaceful  river 

In  the  West. 


88 


SONG  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

I'm  a  golden  butterfly, 

Freed  from  my  dark  cocoon; 
I  spread  my  wings  beneath  the  sky 

Of  rosy  June; 

To  flit  a  while  from  flow'r  to  flow'r, 
In  wild  ravine  and  woodland  bower; 
To  live  the  pleasures  of  an  hour, 

And  perish  soon. 

But  ever  gay  and  light  of  heart, 

I  rest  by  verdant  springs, 
Or  over  field  and  meadow  dart 

On  gauzy  wings. 
The  children  chase  me  in  delight, 
And  try  to  stop  my  swerving  flight, 
But  soon  I  flutter  from  their  sight — 
Poor,  clumsy  things! 

And  when  the  day  has  passed  away, 
With  all  its  warm  sunshine, 

And,  dark  and  gray,  the  shadows  play 
On  tree  and  vine, — 

Within  a  cozy  flower  I  creep, 

And  fold  my  wings  and  drowse  to  sleep ; 

There's  not  a  joy  more  true  or  deep 
Than  this  of  mine! 


89 


THE  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE. 

Strew  lightly  o'er  the  soldier's  grave 

The  springtime  blossoms  fresh  and  white, 
And  deck  with  wreaths    and    garlands 
bright 

The  silent  couches  of  the  brave. 

They  fought — they  died — they  lie  at  rest 
Beneath  yon  low  and  grassy  mounds ; 
No  more  for  them  the  trumpet  sounds 

To  thrill  the  patriotic  breast. 

But  though  they  mingle  with  the  dust 
In  that  dark  kingdom,  where  Decay 
Sits  throned  in  his  halls  of  clay, 

Their  memory  is  free  from  rust. 

For  well  we  love  to  honor  those 
Who  bravely  fell  amid  the  fight, 
Who  sank  in  all  their  vanquished  might 

Upon  the  field  among  their  foes. 

We  honor  both — the  blue,  the  gray — 
For  time  hath  blotted  from  the  mind 
All  bitter  thoughts  and  words  unkind 

And  washed  all  prejudice  away. 

90 


And  we  remember  only  this, — 

They  bravely  fought — they  bravely  died; 

And,  hero-like,  their  souls  should  ride 
Along  the  ether  seas  of  bliss. 

Then  spread  upon  each  grave  to-day 
The  fragrant  blossoms  of  the  spring, 
And  simple  wreaths  and  garlands  fling 

Above  the  soldier's  honored  clay. 

May  30,   1891. 


MORNING-GLORIES. 

O,  ye  frail  and  pretty  blossoms  that  beneath  my  window 

bloom, 

I  love  the  dewy  beauty  of  your  fresh  and  cultured  heads ; 
And  your  brightly-tinted  petals,  sleeping  in  their  own  per 
fume, — 
Ye  fair,  but  lazy  flowers,  that  are  ever  in  your  beds! 

But  the  eager  morning-glory  is  too  full  of  life  to  stay 

In  the  bowers  of  her  sisters  and  the  soil  that  gave  her 

birth; 

She  has  reared  her  leafy  ladder  long  before  the  break  of  day, 
And  now  is  climbing  lightly  from  her  playmates  on  the 
earth. 

And  as  I  raise  my  window  in  the  daydawn  calm  and  still, 
When  mist  floats  o'er  the  garden,  like  a  canopy  of  lace, 

The  ambitious  little  rover  scrambles  down  upon  the  sill, 
And  gazes  boldly  alt  me  with  her  round  and  open  face. 

A  welcome,  pretty  climber!  and  a  thousand  welcomes  more, 
For  the  early  morning  freshness  that    encircles    thee 

around, 
As  in  robes  of  pink  and  purple,  wrought  at  Nature's  choicest 

store, 

Thou  wav'st  thy  fragile  brightness  far  above  the  lowly 
ground. 

92 


And  although  the  wind  will  tear  thee,  and  the  frost  subdue 

and  blight, 

And  thy  glory  fade  as  quickly  as  all  earthly  glory  here, — 
Still,  this  sharing  of  thy  beauty  may  redeem  thy  fading 

plight; 
Creating  glories,  richer  far,  around  thy  leafy  bier. 


93 


SLEEP. 

Like  tossing  ships,  which,  far  out  on  the  bay, 

Sail  whitely  through  the  evening's  purple  light; 
In-  dusk  and  distance  fading  slow  away,    ' 

'Neath  the  drooped  mantle  of  approaching  Night ; — 
So  do  the  senses  gradually  forsake 

The  weary  and  exhausted  mind, 
And,  borne  upon  a  drowsy  wind, 

Fade  into  cells  unknown,  but  leave  sweet  Sleep  behind. 
And  Sleep,  kind  Goddess  from  the  azure  lake 

Of  dim  forgetfulness !  does  sit  and  weave 
Wild  thoughts  and  fancies  into  dreams  that  make 

The  present  bright  and  happy,  though  they  leave 
No  clear  impression  on  the  brain  defined; 

But,  like  the  misty  clouds  which  form  at  eve, 
Take  all  the  hues  and  shapes  that  Fancy  can  conceive. 

Then,  free,  the  poorest  dweller  on  proud  earth 

May  stroll  in  raptures  through  celestial  bowers ; 
May  feast  in  palaces  'mid  light  and  mirth, 

Hear  sweet-voiced  birds,  and  gather  fragrant  flowers; 
May  live  in  dreams  such  joy-encompassed  hours, 
That  when  he  does  awake  again 
To  earthly  care  and  toil  and  pain, 
'Tis  with  a  braver  heart  he  bears  Life's  galling  chain. 
Thrice-blessed  Sleep !  what  were  the  heart's  frail  powers 

To  suffer  or  resist,  to  fight  or  bear, 
To  brave  the  drench  of  Fortune's  chilling  showers, — 

Without  thy  near  regard,  thy  tender  care? 
No  quiet  hand  but  thine  couldst  balm  the  brain 
With  touch  more  delicate  than  sweetest  air, 
Or  robe  the  somber  world  in  colors  light  and  fair. 
94 


GLORY. 

There's  scarce  a  path  to  glory 
That  is  not  dark  and  gory, 
That  is  not  strewn  with  broken  hearts  and 

red  with  human  blood: 
Upon  Life's  stormy  ocean 
The  waves,  with  ceaseless  motion, 
Bear  down  the  weak  and  frailer  barks,  and 
sink  them  'neath  the  flood. 

Fame's  crown  is  shining  brightly, 
But  to  touch  it  e'er  so  lightly 
The  soul  must  meet  a  thousand  ills  and  tramp 

them  sternly  down; 
Must  ward  off  Envy's  arrow 
And  darts  that  prod  and  harrow, 
And  bravely  thrust  all  foes  aside  to  seize  the 
sacred  crown. 

O,  thousand  times  'twere  better 
To  live  as  Glory's  debtor, 
To  walk  the  common  paths  of  life  and  bear 

the  common  load, 
Than  to  strive,  with  endless  pining, 
To  excel  the  stars  at  shining, 
And  raise  but  clouds  of  blinding  dust  on 
Reputation's  road. 


95 


HOPE. 

As  some  wild  bird  that  sweeps  the  lonely  lake 

At  eventide,  in  search  of  place  to  rest, 
And  finds  a  shelter  in  the  tangled  brake 

Where  twining  branches  form  a  natural  nest; — 
So  Hope,  sweet  comforter  of  the  oppressed! 

May  skim  but  lightly  o'er  the  troubled  mind. 
But  claims  a  refuge  deep  within  the  breast — 

Its  native  home.     There,  clear  and  well  defined, 
It  mingles  with  our  lives,  braving  cold  Fortune's  wind. 

And  when  Life's  leaden  skies  appall  the  heart 

And  care  and  grief  engross  the  gloomy  hour, 
Tis  then  that  Hope  new  courage  doth  impart, 

And  cheers  the  mind  with  true  consoling  power: 
So  have  I  seen  in  some  dim  forest  bower 

A  sickly  blossom  raise  its  drooping  head, 
As  o'er  it  sprayed  the  cool,  refreshing  shower 

That  brought  it  strength,  when  all  its  strength  had  fled ; 
Gave  it  new  life  and  hope,  and  saved  it  from  the  dead. 


96 


SPARKS  FROM  SAPPHO. 
I. 

The  stars  that  glitter  round  the  moon, 
When  she  unveils  her  lovely  face, 

Grow  pale  and  sickly, — fading  soon 
In  dim  and  unregarded  space: 

Alone  the  radiant  Queen  doth  glow, 

And  silvers  all  the  earth  below. 

II. 

Among  the  bending  apple  trees, 
Where  coolly  winds  the  river, 

Down  streams  a  sleep-inducing  breeze, 
Through  leaves  of  drowsy  quiver. 

in. 
Come,  Venus,  show  thy  features  bright; 

And,  in  this  golden  cup, 
Serve  nectar, — mixed  for  love's  delight — 

Come;  fill  the  goblet  up! 

IV. 

O   Muse!  enthroned  on  seat  of  gold, 
Breathe  forth  that  strain  of  music  old 

The  sage  of  Teos  sung; 
That  strain  so  soft  with  cadence  rare, 
Which,  fraught  with  themes  that  witched 
the  air, 

Rolled  sweetly  from  his  tongue. 

97 


V. 

The  moon  has  set;  the  Pleiades 
To  far  gloom-vaults  have  gone; 

'Tis  dark  midnight ;  Time's  tread  is  light — 
I  lie  on  my  couch  alone. 

VI. 

When  thou  art  dead, 
Then  art  thou  ever  dead — 
Cold  in  neglect  thy  nameless  dust  shalt  lie; 

No  tears  in  reverence  shed, 
No  loving  tongue  to  hymn  thy  memory 

Out  of  the  tomb; — 

For  thou  disdain'st  the  lovely  flowers  that  bloom 
Round  Pieria's  springs. 
Lo,  this  thy  doom: — 

To  flit  with  lonely  ghosts  through  Hades'  gloom 
On  loneliest  wings. 

VII. 

O,  Dica,  crown  thy  flowing  hair 
With  parsley  green  and  flowers  fair, 
And  with  thy  hands,  so  soft  and  white, 
Form  wreaths  of  blossoms  dewy  bright; 
For  all  the  gods  that  dwell  above 
Such  floral  tributes  dearly  love; 
But  from  the  clouds  they  sternly  frown 
On  those  who  lack  the  perfumed  crown. 

VIII. 

My  daughter  Cleis  is  as  fair 

As  flow'rs  with  golden  petals  rare; 

98 


If  Lydia's  treasures  all  were  mine, 
For  her  my  wealth  I  would  resign. 

IX. 
The  evening  bringeth  home  again 

What  rosy  morning  scattered  wide, — 
The  goats  and  sheep  forsake  the  plain, 

And  children  seek  their  mother's  side. 

x. 

"Bright  youthful   days,   bright   youthful   days,- 
Ah,  tell  me  whither  art  thou  fled?" 

"Time  ne'er  retracks  the  once-trod  ways; 
The  past  is  dead,  the  past  is  dead!" 


99 


THISTLEDOWN. 

See  the  silky  thistledown 

Drifting  through  the  air! 
O,  how  could  it  have  come  to  town 

Where  all  is  dark  and  bare? 
Where  grimy  walls  and  smoke  entomb 
Much  stronger  things  than  pappus  plume. 

See  it  floating  down  the  street, 

Like  a  flake  of  snow; 
Only  it  doth  scorn  the  feet 

Of  the  crowd  below, — 
Preferring  on  the  wind  to  ride 
A  dainty  snowflake  vivified. 

But  the  kindly  breeze  will  die 

In  the  heat  of  noon — 
Crushed  upon  the  ground  'twill  lie, 

O,  too  soon,  too  soon ! 
For  it  is  too  frail  and  pretty 
For  the  harsh  and  busy  city. 


100 


INCONSTANCY. 

What  we  would  not  do,  we  do; 

What  we  would  do  stays  undone; 
For  the  mind  of  changeful  hue — 

A  mental  chameleon — 
Now  is  brilliant,  rich  and  gay, 
Now  a  dull,  lack-luster  gray. 

E'en  the  shadows  in  the  wood 

Show  more  constancy 
Than  the  brain-begotten  brood, 

Whose  wings  are  never  free; 
But,  close-clipped  for  Custom's  gaze, 
Flit  through  an  unworthy  maze. 


101 


DISCORD. 

Schoolboys  did  hear  a  robin  sing, 

Out  in  the  happy  field, 
Whose  clear  and  unrestrained  notes 

A  wealth  of  joy  revealed. 

While  one,  with  rapt,  uplifted  face, 
Shared  in  that  free  delight, 

The  others  quickly  searched  for  stones 
And  put  the  bird  to  flight. 

What  need  of  further  words  to  tell 

The  instincts  of  mankind; 
How  'neath  the  rays  of  Beauty's  sun 

We  wander,  cold  and  blind! 

A  few  may  catch  a  passing  glimpse 
Of  light,  and  thrill  with  joy; 

But  most  do  spurn  fair  Nature's  work, 
And  blaspheme  and  destroy. 


102 


APRIL  WEATHER. 

MORNING. 

The  violet  folds  its  petals  blue, 

All  shivering  with  pain; 
The  redbreast  lifts  his  head  to  sing, 
But  soon  beneath  the  downy  wing 

He  thrusts  it  back  again; 
The  rabbit  furls  its  haughty  ears 

And  looks  for  hollow  stumps; 
The  cynic  raven  seeks  an  oak, 
Too  miserable  for  scarce  a  croak, 

And  sits  there  in  the  dumps; 
Even  the  frogs,  in  soggy  heather, 
Are  croaking  at  this  April  weather. 

AFTERNOON. 

The  violet  turns  its  purple  face 

To  breathe  the  sunny  air; 
The  redbreast,  on  a  budding  tree, 
Pipes  forth  its  grateful  melody, 

Or  sweeps  the  meadows  fair; 
The  rabbit  skips  with  lively  pace 

Adown  the  fragrant  vale; 
The  cynic  raven  now  doth  long 
To  imitate  the  linnet's  song 

And  change  its  dismal  wail: 
All  Nature's  children  stand  together 
In  praising  April's  lovely  weather. 


103 


A  MORNING  INCIDENT. 

Now  Aurora  rose  up  from  her  crystalline  bed, 

In  her  airy  pearl-spangled  pavilion; 
And  she  threw  a  rich  cloak  o'er  her  shoulders  and 
head, 

With  a  scarf  of  the  rarest  vermilion; 
And  she  said,  with  a  yawn  that   undimpled    her 

smile, — 

"I  fear  I  have  slept  for  a  very  long  while ; 
I  went  to  bed  last  on  a  bright  April  day, 
And  now,  I  declare,  'tis  the  middle  of  May!" 
Then  she  harnessed  her  horses  without  more  ado, 
And  down  the  empyrean  highway  she  flew, 
Till  she  met  the  great  Earth,  in  her  mantle  of  blue, 
A-rolling  around  like  a  creature  demented, — 
Bewildered  with  mist,  by    storm-fiends    circum 
vented. 

Then  the  child  of  Hyperion,  the  poor  wretch  con 
doling, 

Prayed  to  her  proud  father  for  aid; 
And  the  lazy  old  god,  in  his  high  palace  lolling, 

Heard  the  prayer  of  the  pitying  maid: 
So  together  they  scattered  the  mist  and  the  night, 
And  the  rheumatic  Earth  danced  a  jig  in  delight. 


104 


BELATED  FLOWERS. 

Those  floral  stars  that  should  have  shown 

Their  beauty  to  the  Spring  alone, 

Or  but  have  felt,  with  nearing  death, 

The  brief  delight  of  Summer's  breath, — 

Now  lift  their  dainty  petals  up 

To  catch  the  dew  in  fragrant  cup, 

And  bloom  near  Flora's  scented  booth 

In  all  the  glory  of  their  youth; 

For  though  the  Spring,  in  sullen  mood, 

Refused  to  nurse  the  pretty  brood, 

And  tried,  like  Saturn,  to  devour 

Her  children  in  their  natal  hour, 

They  did  escape  her  cruel  wrath 

To  spread  their  brightness  round  our  path; 

Telling  the  world  that  joy,  though  late, 

Will  triumph  o'er  the  blights  of  fate. 

— June,  1892. 


105 


THE  WAIFS. 

O,  think  of  the  waifs,  the  poor  outcasts  of  Fortune, 

Who  fight  for  their  lives  'mid  the  gold-greedy  throng; 
Where  the  trumpet  of  Gain  sounds  the  popular  war-tune, 

And  the  choirs  of  Mammon  all  join  in  the  song. 
They  are  launched  pilotless  on  the  dimest  of  pools, 
Where  even  the  shrewdest  of  men  are  but  fools, 
To  encounter  the  storms  of  this  life,  and  the  gales 
That  may  tear  into  tatters  the  strongest  of  sails. 

Then  help  not  to  banish  that  unconscious  fragrance 
That  Nature  has  placed  in  the  heart  of  each  child, 

Whether  born  in  a  palace,  or  raised  among  vagrants, 
Or  bred  in  the  tent  of  the  Indian  wild: 

O,  seek  not  to  crush  the  sweet  softness  of  youth 

In  a  premature  mold  of  a  shallow  untruth; 

But  cherish  the  bud,  as  its  petals  unfold, 

And  the  heart  of  the  flow'r  will  be  fair  to  behold. 

That  sneer  or  that  blow  is  the  acme  of  sinning 

That  raises  fierce  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  the  young, 
While  the  kind  word  of  praise,  or  the  smile  that  is  winning, 
Are  the  diamonds  that  drop  from  the  lips  and  the  tongue. 
So  think  of  the  waifs  who  are  braving  the  storm, 
Nor  make  it  more  dark  with  the  shade  of  your  form; 
But  hold  your  best  torch  o'er  their  perilous  way 
That  they  may  see  to  live  by  the  light  of  its  ray. 


1 06 


ALL  IS  SAID. 

Shall  I  let  this  day 
Slip  away? 

Its  gentle  azure  hours,  O,  shall  they  die! 
And  not  one  word  to  weave 
The  mysteries  that  cleave 
Unto  the  soul  into  that  great  life-mystery? 

Let  this  perfect  day 
Slip  away; 

A  million  words  are  said  on  every  side: 
The  earth,  the  air,  the  sea, 
Have  solved  the  mystery 
Ages  ago — they  sing  it  now;  all  is  supplied. 


SQUIBS. 


THE  WORLD. 

The  world  is  like  a  crowded  bus; 

A  few  good  men,  perhaps, 
May  find  a  seat,  but  most  of  us 

Must  hang  on  by  the  straps. 

O,  WHY? 

"O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?" 
The  haughtiest  man  whom  we  meet  in  the  crowd 
May  think  we  are  scanning  his  beauty  and  clothes, 
When  we  see  but  the  soot  on  the  end  of  his  nose. 

IN  MAZING  PATHS. 

What  man  should  flee  from  he  would  fain  attack; 
What  most  we  value  are  the  things  we  lack. 
As  o'er  Life's  plain  in  mazing  paths  we  stray, 
The  sweetest  flow'rs  are  trampled  in  the  way — 
Our  native  talents  weaken  and  decay. 

A  DIFFERENCE. 

"Fair  tresses  man's   imperial   race   ensnare, 
And  Beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair." 
But  when,  alas!  we  are  beguiled  to  wed, 
Then  Beauty  drags  us  by  our  hair  instead. 

in 


CRANKS. 

The  town  is  overrun  with  cranks — we  find  them  every 
where — 

We  meet  them  on  the  cable-cars,  and  on  the  thorough 
fare; 

But,  O!  the  greatest  freaks  of  all  that  blot  poor  Nature's 
ranks, 

Are  those  that  notice  what  we  do,  and  say  that  we  are 
cranks. 

PATRIOTIC  MARCHERS. 

The  patriotic  marchers  may  indeed  look  rather  fine, 
When  they  start  out  in  the  morning 

In 
A 

Long 
Straight 
Line; 
But  it  shocks  us,  in  the  evening,  more  than  tongue 

or  pen  can  say, 
To  see  them  straggle  back  again 

In 
A 

Zig- 
Zag 
Way. 

WISEACRES. 

Some  men,  with  sayings  wise  and  trite, 
Our  heads  would  fain  be  stuffing; 

Yet — strange! — we   feel   the   most  delight 
When  they  are  saying  nothing. 
112 


TWO  POETS. 

Two  poets  live  upon  our  street 
Whose  fancies  have  poetic  feet, 
With  which  to  rove  the  universe 
And  prove  a  blessing — or  a  curse. 
Now,  one  is  healthy,  sleek  and  fat, 
And  sports  a  high  and  silky  hat; 
His  scribbling  neighbor's  lank  and  lean, 
And  wears  a  slouch  that's  fading  green. 
The  former  writes  poetic  "ads" 
About  the  latest  business  fads; 
His  fingers  play  with  heaps  of  pelf — 
The  other  rhymer  is  myself. 


SAFE. 

Sarcastic  Pope  once  wrote,  with  bitter  sting, — 
"A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing." 
If  this  be  true,  there  live  some  men  we  know 
Who'll  ne'er  meet  danger  in  this  world  below. 


MY  DIARY. 

January  2 — 

Got  up  to-day — 

Ate  breakfast — caught  the  train — 
Worked — ate  lunch — drew  my  pay — 
And  now  am  home  again! 
Confound  a  diary! 


THAT  DREADFUL  LIST. 

O,  can  it  be  some  secret  woe 

That  clouds  her  lovely  face? 
Or  is  it  fever's  hectic  glow 

That  leaves  its  dreaded  trace? 
Perchance,  from  strange  and  sudden  fright 

Her  mind  through  chaos  drifts: 
But  no — she's  sitting  down  to  write 

A  list  of  Christmas  gifts. 


THE  POET'S  TURKEY. 

"Matilda,"  cried  a  poet,  "they  rejected  all  I  wrote; 
But  we  had  to  have  a  turkey,  so  I  pawned  my  overcoat; 
I  thought  we'd  have  a  dinner  one  day  at  least  this  year, 
So  I  stopped  in  at  the  butcher's  and  bought  this  birdie, 

dear." 

But  his  wife  cried  out  in  anguish  as  she  tore  the  paper  loose, 
"Great  Scott!  it's  not  a  turkey — it's  an 

Old 

Tough 

Goose." 

SILENCE. 

"Silence  is  golden"  'tis  agreed 

By  moralists  and  scholars, 
And  also  by  my  friend  in  need 
Who  borrowed  fifty  dollars. 

114 


A  SOLID  FACT. 

Poets  may  tell  us  that  Life's  but  a  dream, 
A  walking  shadow,  or  a  runaway  stream; 
But  we  poor  toilers,  by  our  troubles  racked, 
Consider  Life  a  more  substantial  fact. 


HIS  VALENTINE. 

He  bought  a  gorgeous  valentine 

With  two  pierced  hearts  upon  it. 
He  wrote:     "To  Lily, — nymph  divine!" 

And  then  composed  a  sonnet. 
He  put  it  in  his  pocket-book — 

(You  know  he  might  have  lost  it) 
And  now,  alas!  it  meets  his  look; 
For,  after  all  the  pains  he  took, 

He  quite  forgot  to  post  it. 


FOILED. 

One  night  a  brave  copper  was  walking  his  beat, 
When  his  form  so  majestic  was  o'ercome  by  the  heat. 
As  he  lay  in  a  hallway  a  large  vicious  cat 
Crept  in  at  the  door,  and  on  top  of  him  sat. 
Like  a  demon  incarnate  it  drank  in  his  breath, 
While  the  poor  fellow  snored  all  unconscious  of  death : 
But  his  nature  so  hardy  such  danger  defied, 
And  the  cat  soon  lay  drunk  at  the  officer's  side. 

"5 


CLUBS. 

Alas!  that  man  may  truly  grieve, 
And  strive  his  breath  to  smother, 

Who  only  has  one  club  to  leave 
To  come  home  to  another. 

THOSE  INCANDESCENT  LAMPS. 

Old  Zep  and  his  wife  Hannah, 
From  the  wilds  of  Indiana, 

Came  in  to  see  our  city,  and  to  take  in  all 

the  sights. 

And  he  said:  "We're  not  that  class 
O'  folks  who'  blow  out  gas; 

Yit  people  here  put  cases  round  their 
darned  ole  lights." 

TO  CRANKYVILLE. 

» 
The  short-haired  women  and  the  long-haired  men 

March  up  the  hill  to  Crankyville,  and  then  march  down 
again. 

WOMAN. 
(  With  apologies  to  Sir  Walter. ) 

O    Woman!  in  our  hours  of  sprees, 
As  sharp  and  fitful  as  the  breeze: 
But  when  the  fates  have  laid  us  low, 
And  stretched  us  on  the  couch  of  woe, 
Thou  giv'st  us  drugs  and  liquids  cruel 
And  make  us  live  on  horrid  gruel. 

116 


WHAT  MAKES  THE  MAN. 

In  a  slow-going  time  'twas  thought  and  said: 
"Worth  makes  the  man,  the  want  of  it  the  fellow." 

But  in  this  age  that  proverb  should  be  read: 

"Naught  makes  the  man  but  ducats  bright  and  yellow." 

Men  miss  not  worth  amid  their  toil  and  greed, 

But  want  of  gold  is  noticed  soon  indeed. 


NO  PACE  TOO  SWIFT. 

Sinners  at  first  seek  Satan  in  a  hesitating  way, 

With  a  sort  of  ling'ring  feeling  that  badness  will  not  pay; 

But  when  they  once  get  started,  and  the  conscience  has 

grown  black, 
They  gallop  to  perdition  on  the 

Kite- 
Shaped 

Track. 

YOU'VE  SEEN  HIM. 

Alas !  this  is  the  saddest  thing 
That  heartless  fate  imposes, — 

To  meet  the  man  who  loves  to  ring 
His  money  'neath  our  noses. 


RETRIBUTION. 

The  rhymer  sat  down  o,n  his  rickety  chair, 

In  front  of  his  rickety  table; 
He  snapped  at  his  pencil,  he  pulled  at  his  hair, 

117 


And  tried  to  revise  an  old  fable. 
Then  the  back  of  his  chair  gave  a  groan  of  despair, 

And  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  clatter; 
And  the  table  it  creaked,  till  he  thought  that  it  squeaked 

"Why  don't  you  turn  out  some  new  matter?" 


BEAUTY'S  LIMITATIONS. 

What  power  is  there  moire  eloquent 
Than  Beauty,  pure  and  innocent, 

To  stir  the  soul  with  love? 
Life's  other  attributes  are  meant 
The  grosser  body  to  content; 
For  Beauty  will  not  pay  the  rent, 

Or  clean  the  kitchen  stove. 


CRUSHED. 

I  have  sneered  at  lovely  woman  and  at  her  many  freaks; 
Have  cynically  viewed  the  faults  with  which  her  nature 

reeks ; 
But  when,  last  night,  I  fell  in  line,  and  through  a  store  did 

drift, 

And  roved  a  labyrinth  of  aisles  to  buy  a  Christmas  gift, — 
I  sank  down  on  a  bench — a  wreck — with  all  my  nerves 

unstrung, 
And  watched  the  way  those  women  bought,  and  meekly 

held  my  tongue. 

118 


A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED. 

An  old  man  once  in  sorrow  said: 

"My  son's  a  wayward  youth; 
I  fear  some  day  he'll  go  astray — 

He  cannot  tell  the  truth." 
Alas!  his  prophecy  came  true. 

His  son  soon  went  to  work: 
And  now  he  lies  in  manner  wise, 

For  he's  a  weather  clerk. 


TOO  TOUGH. 

A  wild,  bloody  ranger  came  out  of  the  West; 

On  all  the  wide  border  his  gun  was  the  best: 

He  had  shot  the  poor  Indians,  he  had  shot  down  his 

pards, 

And  could  snuff  out  a  candle  at  a  cool  hundred  yards. 
But  when  upon  Clark  street  one  night  he  did  roam, 
The  place  was  so  tough  that  he  lit  out  for  home. 


THE  SKATER. 

See  the   skater,   blithe  and    merry, 
Skimming,  whirling,  like  a  fairy, 
Or  an  eagle,  swift  and  airy, 

On  the  wing! 

See  her  cut  those  neat  devices, 
Where  all  clear  and  smooth  the  ice  is,- 
Figures,  forms,  and  names,  and  prices,- 

In  a  ring! 

119 


But  look  now — O,  sight  appalling! 
She  is  falling,  falling,  falling, 
And  upon  the  ice  is  sprawling — 
O,  poor  thing! 


THE  PRODUCE  MAN'S  GIRL. 

Her  eyes  are  like  twin  drops  of  dew 

That  glisten  on  an  onion — 
Her  hair?  'tis  brownish,  like  the  fig 

That's  wrapped  around  my  bunion: 
Her  cheeks  are  like  the  rosy  beet — 

Like  these  we  have  for  sale,  sir: 
Her  brow,  her  neck,  her  dainty  ears, 

Are  like  those  turnips,  pale,  sir: 
Her  breath  is  like  a  carrot,  sweet; — 

In  fact,  she  is  so  pretty 
The  jealous  girls  upon  her  street 

Are  moving  from  the  city. 


KNOWLEDGE. 

Man's  boasted  knowledge  is  as  thin 
As  city  milk  in  pails  of  tin, 
Although  at  times  its  flow  may  seem 
As  thick  and  rich  as  country  cream: 
At  first  we  may  be  prone  to  doubt; 
But,  with  the  years,  we  find  it  out. 

1 20 


YE  RIME  OF  YE  ANCIENT  SILVERITE. 

It  is  an  ancient  Silverite, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three, — 
"By  thy  long  gray  beard,  I  am  afeard; 
Why  dost  thoti  stare  at  me?" 

He  holds  me  with  his  glittering  eye, — 

"There  was  a  time,"  quoth  he, 
"When  the  flowing  bowl  did  warm  my  soul, 
.As  it  flowed  full  plenteously. 

"Election  past,  my  good  vote  cast, 

O  now  no  man  doth  think, 
That,  though  there's  whisky  all  around, 

I've  not  one  drop  to  drink!" 


A  SUMMER  TRAGEDY. 

The  portly  landlord  of  the  Lake  Breeze  House 

Stood  out  on  his  chilly  veranda; 
And  the  Goddess  of  Sorrow  his  spirit  did  douse, 
With  a  cold,  foggy  wind  that  swept  through  his  blouse, 

As  he  wept, — like  the  great  Alexander. 
And  he  cried:     "O,  ye  Powers,  from  celestial  bowers 

Look  down  on  your  shivering  slave: 
O,  send  me  a  boarder,  ye  mighty  Recorder, 

Or  I  sink  in  a  premature  grave!" 
But  the  wind  and  the  tide  were  all  that  replied; 

And,  buttoning  up  his  greatcoat, 
He  leaped  to  the  sea  *  *  *  the  fishes,  in  glee, 

Soon  enjoyed  a  fine  table  d'hote. 

121 


( 


PS 

3525 

M8965A17 

1897 


A  000  927  667  6 


